House Arrest
by Flatpickluvr
Summary: This is the third short story in my Jail series.  It picks up immediately where Solitary left off.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N – this is the third short story in my Jail series. If you haven't read the first two, Jail and Solitary, you probably should because each story picks up right where the previous one left off. Also be aware there are spoilers for Season 8 episode 1 so if you haven't seen the premiere yet, consider yourself warned. From everything I've heard (and it hasn't been much) about the next few episodes, I think this story will be even more AU than Solitary was. It's intended to be a little bit of canon mixed in with a whole lot of AU.**

Wilson had that "stewing" look in his eyes. That look that told House Wilson really wanted to talk about something, but didn't know how to do it. Both men were in Wilson's car and House knew this time he couldn't get away.

"House, now that you're on house arrest, we have to talk about living arrangements."

"I know. I'm not a moron. We talked about this before. I thought you were moving in with me."

"If you want me to, I will. I'm not sure that you want me to."

"I want you to move in with me." House said it without much emotion, as if all he really wanted to do was shut Wilson up, and he thought this might be the most efficacious way to do that.

"I can't spend every waking moment worrying about you," Wilson said.

"I never asked you to."

"I need to know that when I leave to run little errands and stuff, that you're not going to bolt the first chance you get."

"I can't. They'll re-arrest me," House replied.

"Potential consequences never stopped you from doing anything before," Wilson said, taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment and fixing House with a stare.

"What do you mean by that?" House fired back angrily.

"House, I need to know that you care about yourself and me enough not to bolt the first chance you get."

"If I could bolt, I'd have done it before I got in your car. I can't even walk, let alone run."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. And just telling me that you're not going to bolt doesn't mean shit. You lie all the time. I need to know that you're not going to bolt." Wilson was looking at the road, so House couldn't see his face, but emotion was just dripping from every word.

House replied softly and pensively, "I know what you mean. I'm not going to escape, Wilson."

Wilson waited a few moments, and then answered softly, "Ok. I think I believe you. Don't prove me wrong. Let's get home and call in like they said, so we can both get some rest."

Arriving at 221B Baker Street, House opened the car door and silently took in all the sunlight and fresh air. It hadn't taken long for the stench of jail to permeate every fiber of his clothing, every hair follicle on his head, every skin cell, every little nose hair. Everything smelled like jail stink. Showers never got it all off. Jail stink is everyone else's urine, vomit, stool, foul food, bad breath and body odor all rolled up into one giant smell. Even though House had showered that morning before being released, it wasn't enough to get the stink out of his nostrils. He was embarrassed to think that Wilson's car would now smell like jail. Leather seats tend to soak up da stank pretty quickly.

Wilson got out of the car, walked around to his trunk and got House's cane out for him. House was still sitting on the passenger seat, taking deep breaths of the fresh air and testing his leg out before trying to stand on it.

"I'm not gonna stand here and wait for you to ask for help," Wilson said drolly, handing the cane to House and holding out his arm anyway knowing House would not accept the help.

"Of course you are," House said, reaching for Wilson's arm and accepting Wilson's unspoken offer of help anyway.

House stood up, gingerly putting a little weight on his right leg and the cane, and then proceeded independently but at a slower than normal pace up to and through his front door. The first thing he did, after entering his home, was pull out his cell phone to call the monitor number. Of course the cell phone battery was dead.

Limping over to his couch, he found his other phone and called the monitor number. It was an automated recording. The recording instructed him to key in his social security number and press the # Pound key. Then he got a message stating the date, the time of day, and that the monitor had been activated. The recording stated that he was approved to be at three addresses. Each address was numbered one, two, or three. The recording asked him to press the number corresponding to whatever address he was at now. He pressed the number one for his home address. He got another recording stating what he'd already been told, that he was approved to be at three addresses, that he was not allowed to leave Mercer County, and to call this number any time he had to go to an address in Mercer County that had not already been approved. It gave him the option to speak to a live operator when he needed to report to an address in Mercer County not previously approved.

"Ok, Mr. Mom. I called the leg monitor people. You can rest easy," House called out to Wilson.

"I wish it were that easy. I'm sure this is a stupid question but I'll ask it anyway. Do you have any Vicodin to tide you over until we get to the pain clinic?" Wilson asked from the kitchen.

"You must be kidding," was House's only answer.

"Take some now, since I can tell you missed your second Methadone dose at the jail. I'm flushing the rest of it down the toilet. You can't take Vicodin and Methadone together."

"And you can't recite the alphabet backwards. Tell me something else I don't know."

Ignoring the barb, Wilson continued. "Where's your written referral to the pain clinic? We have to do that today."

_Ok, so he says he doesn't want to continuously worry about me, but he does it anyway,_ House thought.

"Don't you have sick cancer kids to cry over? I'll call the pain clinic now but I doubt they can get me in today. If I can't get in until tomorrow I'm fine for today with the Vicodin I have here."

"I'm sure you'd be fine until this time next year with all the Vicodin you have here. That's not the point. The point is, shut up and call the clinic now or else I will," Wilson spouted back.

Wordlessly, House picked up the phone and began forcefully pounding on the phone's numeric keypad like a little kid playing with a toy.

An overly polite, saccharine-sweet female voice answered.

"Mercer County Pain Clinic, my name is Janelle. May I help you please?"

"I doubt it," House replied. "I'm calling because I'm required to call. My name is Gregory House and I have a written referral from Dr. Sykes at the Mercer County Jail. I'm required to call you."

"Oh yes, Mr. House. I have you on my list to call. We received your referral through the computer. We were expecting your call. Thank you. What time today can you come in?"

"Today?" House asked incredulously. "You have time to see me today?"

"We sure do! Can you come in at 4 pm? We'd rather see you today if possible, and 4 pm is the earliest appointment time we have available today."

"Yep. See you at 4."

"Ok, we got you penciled in at 4 pm. Please bring your referral, your insurance information and a photo ID. Thank you," she replied, sugar practically dripping from her voice on the other end of the phone.

House guessed the receptionist to be about 19 years old from the sound of her voice, probably blonde, buxom, and perky. Either she'd been very well trained in how to handle calls from people in pain, or more likely, she was just new and naïve. Nobody could be that sweet and nice answering the phone when the caller was as grouchy as he was today.

"They can get me in at 4 pm," House called out to Wilson, who was still in the kitchen pottering around. House had stretched out on the couch, his left knee bent and his right leg resting flat on the couch. He'd already taken two Vicodin. He had hundreds more stashed in various places in his apartment. He assumed from the softly clattering noises coming from the kitchen that Wilson was searching the drawers and cupboards for more pills.

"Did you tell them you've already taken some Vicodin?"

"What do you think?" House replied.

"Yeah, considering you're you, I guess that was a stupid question. I'm cleaning out the rest of your Vicodin. After I get done, I'm going back to the loft to get some clothes and other stuff. I'll be back in time to take you to the pain clinic, and then I'll fix dinner."

"I'm not completely helpless," House called from the couch.

Wilson appeared in the living room. "I never said you were. You said you weren't sure if the ankle monitor thingy meant you couldn't drive. I assume 'drive' means 'ride the motorcycle' since you don't have a car anymore. You must have forgotten that they revoke drivers' licenses for offenses like deliberately crashing into a house. The pain clinic is not on a bus route. Unless you're planning on spending a fortune on cab rides, or sprouting wings, I'll have to drive you."

"You futz and fuss and worry over me like I was helpless."

"Believe me, I don't enjoy worrying about you. The things you do MAKE me worry about you. I still never said you were helpless. And actually, it's not the things you do that make me worry. It's the consequences for the things you do that make me worry."

House had no comeback for that. He knew Wilson was right.

"Anyway, I'm hard-wired to worry. You know that. You're you, I'm me and we're not going to change. Might as well accept that and move on," Wilson said.

"I'm leaving for now. I'm just going to pick up my stuff. Don't go anywhere. I got my boys watching you," Wilson said with a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Alone in his apartment temporarily, House couldn't help but marvel at the freedom he had to just flip through the channels on TV. He didn't have free and easy access to a TV in jail. There was one TV for everyone in the infirmary, and everyone there was too sick to enjoy it. There might have been one TV for his cellblock the short time he was in gen pop. It was so noisy he couldn't have heard it anyway. And there were no TVs for anyone in solitary.

For a few brief moments in jail, House wished he had his old Sony Watchman. Hell, he'd have been happy with the old rabbit ears black and white TV in his office. Anything was better than staring at walls, playing chess solo with tissue paper pieces, or rehearsing song parts in his head. Now here he was, lying on his own couch in his own home flipping through TV channels on his own TV. He thought how ironic and actually sad it was that this was as good as it was going to get for a very long time.

He couldn't go to a movie theater. Not that he ever went out to movies much, but even if he wanted to now, he couldn't.

He couldn't go to a restaurant.

He couldn't go to a bar – wait – wow, that one really hit him. _He couldn't go to a bar_.

Hell, he couldn't even go to a gas station. Not that he had anything to put gas into, except the bike, and if he got caught riding the bike with a suspended or revoked driver's license, he'd be back in jail in two seconds flat only this time with an extra charge on his record.

He could, of course, go to work, which would require calling a cab or riding to and from work every day with Wilson. Then of course he'd have to face the scorn of everyone at PPTH.

Oh, and joy of joys, he had the fun of going to the pain clinic once a day for his Methadone. Speaking of, he was going to have to ask them about getting two doses a day or if they would fill a prescription and allow him to take his doses at home unsupervised. _Yeah, right, like that's ever going to happen._

So lying on his couch flipping through TV channels and brooding appeared to be about as good as it was going to get for a very long time.

Nothing on TV captured his interest. He was exhausted, but actually had more difficulty than usual falling asleep because it was too quiet in his apartment. He hadn't been in jail very long, but he'd been there long enough to begin acclimating to all the noise. Since the noise never stopped, it became part of the background, and he'd learned to nap even when the din around him was enough to wake the dead.

Now, the only noise was the TV and he had trouble falling asleep. Nervously, he rubbed and picked at his wrists, as though he was still in handcuffs. Eventually nature won out and he drifted off to an uneasy, fitful sleep.

Wilson knocked on the door. When there was no reply, he pulled out the spare key House had given him and quietly let himself in. He tiptoed past the sleeping House as quietly as a man carrying four suitcases can, managing to bump a few things on his way but never once jostling House awake.

Back in the bedroom with his four suitcases, Wilson sat down on the normally unoccupied side of House's king sized bed and wondered about the sleeping arrangements. Not that it was really of any importance now, but they'd have to deal with it sooner or later. House would try to make a big joke out of it or else elude talking about it altogether, but to Wilson, it was very serious.

If House was going to make Wilson sleep on the couch, to Wilson that meant "temporary". In Wilson's mind, sleeping on the couch meant "That's fine, you can stay here a few days, but then you have to leave." Wilson had no intention of leaving no matter how ferociously House might try to drive him out.

If Wilson got the bed, well then, that spelled "commitment", and neither one of the men had a good track record in that department. House certainly wasn't going to camp out on the couch permanently, in his own home, and Wilson had no intention of asking House to do that anyway.

Sitting there in a pensive mood surrounded by his four big suitcases, Wilson was oblivious to the 6 foot 2 inch tall, slim sexy man leaning against the door frame behind him and staring at him with those dreamy blue eyes.

Wilson turned and almost gasped when he saw that obviously House had something similar on his mind. Judging from House's expression, which was all he had to judge by since House hadn't said a word, House had sleeping arrangements and something else related to that on his mind. What that "something else" was became clear pretty soon.

In a low, throaty, growling tone of voice, House muttered, "Why Jimmy, I see you've already decided where you're going to sleep. Like I have no say-so in the matter. Fortunately it's a king-sized bed. Plenty of room for you, me, and a couple hookers too. That is, unless you'd rather leave the hookers out of the equation."

Blushing, Wilson sputtered, "I, well, I just…"

"Don't be embarrassed, Jimmy. You take your half, and I'll take mine. It'll be fun. What, you think I want to jump your bones or something? Hey, I'm game if you are," House said with a perfect poker face.

Wilson studied House's expression, which was inscrutable. Wilson couldn't tell if he was serious or being facetious.

"Relax, Wilson. It's just a damn bed. For sleeping. You sleep, I sleep, we do it in the same bed. Stop worrying about anything else."

Wilson still sat there, silently, trying to figure House out.

House said, "I give up. Are you really afraid I'm going to jump your bones?"

Wilson replied softly, "No. I think you're afraid that I want to jump YOUR bones. That's why you're making fun of me."

"Well, don't you? Isn't that what this is all about? You can't stay married, you can't keep a girlfriend for longer than a few months, and you keep coming back to me over and over again. I drove a car through my ex-girlfriend's house and you got hurt in the process and I tried to flee and you turned me in and you keep coming back to me. Why else would you hang on to me like that? Wilson, get real! Get a life! I'm not worth it!"

Wilson looked plaintively at House and said, "House, come over here and sit down."

_Oh no, it's not lecture time. It's sermon time. I'm getting a sermon on love or commitment or something from a non-practicing, thrice divorced Jew who slept with a dying patient. This ought to be good._

"When are you going to get it through your thick, stupid, dumbass, crazy skull that I love you? I'm finally fine with saying that out loud. Listen to me. Listen closely. I love you. Period. I love you exactly the way you are. I love you on the Vicodin, I love you off the Vicodin, I love you riding that damn motorcycle at 180 miles an hour, I love you draped all over that couch watching some dumb monster truck thing on TV, I love you just for who you are. I love you when you're drunk off your ass and I love you when you're sober. I love you when you're not in pain and I love you when you are in pain and all you want to do is shut the rest of the world out for a little while. I don't give a fucking damn about changing you. Hell, that's WHY I love you – because you are who you are. And I don't give a damn if you think that my telling you I love you makes me sound like a sissy or a fag or whatever is going on in that rat maze of a mind of yours. You can think whatever you want to. I love you and that's that. I'm not going to 'jump your bones' unless, of course, you want me to. Having sex with someone does not a commitment make. It's everything else that goes into a relationship that makes or breaks a commitment. House, you almost died for Amber and me. You always say that actions speak louder than words. You've already told me over and over again, by your actions over the years, that you want to be with me. I haven't shown you the same kind of commitment. I'm showing it to you now. You've always been there for me through thick and thin even when I try to bail out on you. Well, I'm not bailing out on you anymore. You can act like a jerk all you want to, but I'm not leaving, you big asshole," Wilson said with moist eyes and a hint of a smirk.

House feigned a look of insult. "So, you don't want to jump my bones? What, I'm not good enough for you?" he said with a playful jab to Wilson's shoulder and a big hearty laugh.

Both men collapsed on each other in relieved laughter. "Get up off me, you stupid dumb ass. You look like death warmed over. I can see myself in the shine on your scalp. Comb what's left of your hair and get dressed. We have to get to the pain clinic," Wilson gasped, laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

In the waiting room at the Mercer County Pain Clinic, House began to nervously scratch at the skin under his ankle monitor.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked quietly.

"I can't wear this anymore. It's too tight," House hissed.

Wilson checked his leg. The monitor was on his left leg, not his always-troublesome right leg. There was no swelling, no redness, and plenty of room between the nylon strap and his leg. There appeared to be no physical problem.

"Stop doing that. It's not too tight. Leave it alone," Wilson said quietly.

"This is driving me crazy! It's like walking around with a dog collar on my ankle. I'm gonna get zapped or something," House complained.

"If you get zapped by anybody it'll be by me. I'm gonna hit you with that damn cane if you keep trying to take the monitor off."

"You wouldn't," House laughed quietly. It wasn't really all that funny to House because the strap really was bothering him, but House knew as well as Wilson that the problem wasn't physical. What bothered House was the knowledge that he really wasn't free at all, that he was still tethered just like a dog. The only difference was that the collar was on his ankle instead of his neck and the leash was invisible. All the authorities had to do to yank on his chain was to call him or send out the cops.

All that pulling on the strap must have triggered something. House's cell phone rang. According to the caller ID, the call came from the same number on House's ankle monitor. Damn. House knew that the consequences for not answering the call (or not returning the call right away if it went to voicemail) were simple. Warrant issued immediately for his re-arrest. He'd be back in jail before the day was through. They'd be able to locate the ankle monitor through GPS. Hell, they might not even bother calling. They might just send the cops out.

House answered the call promptly. It was an automated recording asking him to punch option 1 if he was in his residence, option 2 if he was at his place of employment, or option 3 if he was at the Mercer County Pain Clinic. He punched option 3, waited for the recording to confirm his entry, and hung up as instructed. House had a suspicion that this phone call didn't actually prove he was where he said he was. He suspected that when he punched in a number to indicate where he was, all it did was record where the inmate said he was. They would use GPS to find the actual location of the device and check that against the inmate's word. If GPS proved that the inmate was lying, the cops would be sent out to wherever GPS indicated the device was. The inmate would either be arrested right there or if the device had been cut off, a manhunt would begin for the inmate.

House kept dwelling on the word "inmate" in his mind. The fact was, he was still an inmate of the Mercer County Correctional system. The ankle monitor was a continuous reminder of that. He was having a lot of difficulty reconciling that with the fact that he was not locked in a building behind bars.

House had actually seriously thought about getting a bolt cutter, cutting the thing off and attempting another escape. From a practical standpoint, it wouldn't work. Even if he could manage to get a hold of a bolt cutter, he couldn't carry it far enough to use it. Assuming the hospital had one, he'd have to carry it to a hiding place somewhere to use it, and carrying anything that large was simply not going to work. More importantly, he would lose Wilson permanently if he tried to cut the monitor off, and that was a risk he simply couldn't take.

"Damn, they don't fool around. I wasn't trying to remove it. I was just scratching underneath the strap. It bothers me. They called to confirm whether or not I was where I was supposed to be, like they don't already know that from checking the GPS. Damn," House muttered.

A receptionist called House's name. There were insurance forms to fill out ahead of time, before he could be seen by the doctor.

A few minutes after 4 pm, House was called back into one of the examining rooms. The exam rooms at the pain clinic were sparsely furnished, as though there wasn't much money budgeted for interior decorating. They had the equipment necessary to perform a basic physical examination and there were charts on the wall depicting pain pathways to and from the brain. There were several posters on the wall advertising various pain medications.

Wilson went back to the exam room with House.

"I'm not four years old. I don't need my daddy with me. I'm fine," House complained.

"Since your version of the truth often varies from the ACTUAL truth, I think I would beg to differ. I won't stay in the exam room with you if you don't want me to, but I'll be in the waiting room. I'll set a trap for the doctor and nurse when they run out of here screaming," Wilson replied, shaking his finger in House's general direction.

A nurse took his pulse, blood pressure and temperature. All normal. She smiled when she heard Wilson's comment about running from the room screaming. She knew that patients in chronic pain could often be very difficult to manage, especially those who had been on long term pain management that needed to be changed. She knew that change was always difficult and that's usually when things got interesting with stubborn patients.

After Wilson left, the nurse began going through a checklist with House.

"May I examine the original injury?" she asked politely.

Usually nurses avoided House like the plague because he treated them like they were infected with it. He wasn't used to the nurse making the first move, and he particularly wasn't used to nurses who didn't hate him.

"Sure, but I can't roll my pant leg up high enough. The scar is on my thigh. I'm gonna have to strip. I have boxer briefs on, but you might get a good show anyway."

Completely unfazed by his somewhat feeble attempt to shock her, she said "Long as you're covered. You'll need to keep the scar exposed for the doctor to examine too."

When she got her first look at it, she winced silently for him. Having seen similar situations many times in the past, she knew how badly nerve damage hurts. Obviously he had nerve damage. You can't lose that much muscle surgically and not have nerve damage. She didn't have to have his old medical records to see that he'd had three surgeries in the same area. The old scar had been recently reopened and was in various stages of healing. There were little red track marks on either side of the scar indicating where skin staples and sutures had recently been removed. The surgery he performed on himself recently to remove the first tumor and the follow up surgery Hourani did to remove the last two tumors and clean up the mess undoubtedly made the nerve damage worse. He'd had three traumatic surgeries in the same area; apparently each time, the old scar had been reopened. When severed nerve endings heal, they can leave permanent numbness, pain, abnormal feelings of hot/cold, tingling sensations, and so forth in their path. And other people very rarely understand why someone with chronic pain has to take narcotics for fifteen plus years. So the chronic pain patient not only has to deal with the chronic pain and the nasty side effects of narcotics, they usually have to deal with the scornful attitudes of others who think they should be able to get off the narcotics.

Years of practice had ingrained in her the ability to carefully maintain her professional demeanor. She asked him about his history of pain management techniques.

"I was on Demerol right after the surgery. I didn't tolerate it so they switched me over to morphine. When I was ready for discharge they switched me to oral Vicodin. I don't like being on Vicodin and I tried that experimental Ketamine treatment that they're doing over in Europe. I was off all oral pain medication for three months before the Ketamine treatment failed and I had to go back on the Vicodin again. I tried to get off the Vicodin again and on to Methadone. Yeah, I have been on Methadone before. It worked great but I couldn't think straight. I need my mental faculties intact. When I was on the Methadone, I didn't even have to use a cane. The leg was still weak – it always will be – but I had very little pain on the Methadone. But, I had to get off it so I could think straight. Back on the Vicodin again. I'm hooked on it. I tried one more time to get off of it because I was taking too much and it was making me hallucinate. Long story short, detox didn't work; when they detoxed me off the Vicodin they put me on Ibuprofen which didn't even come close to helping."

"What dose of Methadone were you on?"

"I don't remember. I wasn't allowed to prepare my own dose. I had to go to my boss to get it."

"Why were you not allowed to take your own medication?" the nurse asked, perplexed.

"They didn't trust me. Actually, no, SHE didn't trust me. She made it a condition of my continued employment there. First she said she would fire me if I stayed on the Methadone. I quit my job when she said that. She lured me back by telling me I could stay on the Methadone but as a condition of my continued employment there, she said I was going to have to get it from her or from one of my department employees. I had to take the dose in their presence. She even put it in writing on a contract. I was so grateful for the pain relief the Methadone gave me, I was ready to quit or let her fire me – I didn't give a damn about anything but being pain-free for as long as it lasted. But in the end, I had lost my intellectual edge, and that was worse. I stopped the Methadone, the pain ramped up, I went back on Vicodin, and here we are."

"Who's 'she'?"

"My former boss. It's not important. You wanted to know my pain management history, and I told you."

"Thank you." She could tell House was nervous about all of this. In addition to his right leg, which had already been propped up on the exam table, he had propped his left leg up on the examining table and was using the tip of his cane to scratch the skin raw around the ankle monitor. When he wasn't doing that, he was fiddling with his cane, rubbing his forehead or drumming his fingers on the exam table cushion. He seemed ready to explode with nerves. "The doctor should be in shortly. He'll do a history and physical, and then we'll discuss your Methadone maintenance. We can get you on a dose that won't impair your mental sharpness. Work with us, and we can make it work for you."

"I don't have any choice. It's a court mandate."

"Dr. House, if the only reason you're here is because it's a court mandate, it won't work. You have to want to work with us. We have to trust that you're going to do your part too."

"If I don't work with you, I get tossed back in jail. My choice is either go back to jail or go on a drug that dulls my edge. Where's the doc?" Inside, he was teetering on the edge of yelling; on the outside, he carefully maintained a calm façade.

"Dr. House, I'm not here to argue with you. Methadone doesn't have to dull your edge. Since it did, whoever prescribed it before obviously had you on an improper dose. I promise, we can find a dose that works that doesn't dull your edge. We can also try other medications but I agree; Methadone should be the first choice. Here's the doc."

Dr. Hyunh introduced himself. His name was pronounced W-I-N. "Hi, Dr. House. I've read the meager records from the Mercer County Jail Infirmary. I've read the nurse's history too. I'd like to get your medical records from your previous hospitalizations."

"You got a spare room? I've been hospitalized a lot. Five or six times at PPTH and once at Mayfield Psych Hospital."

"No problem. The more information I have, the better. Tell me about your hospitalizations at PPTH."

"First was for the infarction. I went to the clinic when the pain first hit and they sent me home saying it was a sprained muscle. Told me to get rest and apply heat. After going back to the clinic every day for a few more days I finally got admitted and they found the real problem but by then the muscle died. I had a bypass done and I wanted to give it a few days to restore the circulation and for me to get over the worst of it all. I asked to be put in a coma because of the pain. While I was out they took out the dead muscle and left me with permanent nerve damage. Voila, permanently disabled."

"Next one was after I got shot. After that I was in a bus crash. I had a pretty bad head injury. Then there was Mayfield. I went cuckoo after taking too much Vicodin. That's it."

"That's more than any one person should have to have to deal with. What about the other hospitalizations at PPTH? You said you were admitted five or six times at PPTH but you've only told me about three. What were the other two or three hospitalizations for?"

"Not important," House tried to end the conversation. He had no intention of telling this guy that he tried to electrocute himself, shot himself up full of too much insulin, and deliberately had electric shocks applied directly to his brain to stimulate his memory after a head injury. He most certainly had no intention of telling this guy he injected himself with an experimental drug over and over again, a drug that hadn't even been through safety trials yet, developed three tumors in his thigh as a result, cut his own leg open to remove the tumors, but couldn't get them all and had to have yet another surgery to remove the other two tumors and repair the damage. He was certain they already thought he was crazy enough without adding more fuel to the fire.

"They are to me. I need an accurate medical history if I'm going to prescribe the right therapy for you. But if you don't want to talk about it, that's ok. I'll work with what I have."

"How much Vicodin do you currently take? Be honest with me. If I'm going to give you the right dose of Methadone, I need to know how much Vicodin it takes to get your pain under control."

House was very tight-lipped. So many people had accused him over the years of using Vicodin to relieve "psychosocial" pain that he had started to believe what everyone else had been harping at him. The line between physical and psychosocial pain had become a bit blurred in his mind.

"At least six a day. I take a lot."

"Do you take them on a fixed schedule, or as you need them?"

"I take them as I need them. I always need something before I get up in the morning. Two Vicodin last me about five hours on a good day. When it gets really bad I have to take three at a time."

"What have you taken recently?"

"I took two about an hour before we left to come here. My friend over there," he said, pointing to Wilson, "got rid of the rest of my stash."

"Mind if I see what's in your pocket?" Dr. Huynh asked.

Shocked, House was temporarily speechless. How did he know House had a vial of Vicodin in his pocket? Could he have seen House fiddling nervously with the little bottle he had hidden in his jacket pocket? Geez.

"You've been fiddling with it ever since I walked in here. Relax. There's nothing wrong with carrying prescribed or over-the-counter medication. I just need to know exactly what dose you were prescribed. I don't care that you have them in your pocket. It's not illegal and I'm not going to take them from you. I just need to see the bottle, that's all."

House produced the familiar orange vial. Vicodin is a combination drug consisting of hydrocodone and acetaminophen. There are various strengths. 5/500 is common. 5 mg hydrocodone and 500 mg acetaminophen. The label stated his prescription was for 1 tablet every four hours as needed for pain, not to exceed 6 tablets a day. He was prescribed 180 tablets to last 30 days with no refills. The scrip was filled 14 days ago, so at a minimum there should have been 90 tablets left. There were 30 tablets left. Obviously he was taking too much, which meant to Dr. Huynh that either his pain was not well managed or he was taking extra for some other reason. Dr. Huynh's facial expression gave him away.

"Ok, you're not an idiot. I should have about 90 left. I take more than prescribed. My leg hurts all the time and it hurts worse when I'm under stress. Nobody believes me anyway so what the hell difference does it make?" House stated.

"I'm not here to judge. I'm here to fix the problem. It's not unusual for chronic pain patients to hurt worse when they're under stress. That's usually a good indication that their underlying pain isn't well managed to begin with. We have several Methadone induction procedures. There's a conservative approach and an acute approach. The conservative approach requires you to stick to a strict administration schedule. Since you weren't doing that with the Vicodin, it is not reasonable to expect you to do that with Methadone. That's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. That's why there are different ways to start Methadone. The method I want to use with you is a loading dose. You take a fixed dose, 5 mg or 10 mg, every four hours as needed. We do this for 8 days. You write down every dose you take. On the 8th day, you come in with your notes. I add up every dose you've taken in the previous 24 hours and calculate a maintenance dose that you'll take twice or three times a day. You'll stop taking it every four hours as needed. Instead, you'll take the maintenance dose twice or three times a day depending on what we arrive at. Once you're on a maintenance dose, I'll also prescribe a much smaller dose that you can take every hour as needed for breakthrough pain, but I think you'll find that the maintenance dose will be all you'll need."

"You mean you trust me to take my own doses and write everything down?" House asked, incredulous.

"To quote you, 'I have to'. During the induction phase, you could be taking it six times a day. You're not coming here six times a day for medication. You're an adult. You make your own decisions. I write the scrip, you get it filled here and yes, you'll be taking your own doses at home. I tell you how the program works, and I have to trust that you'll work with us. I won't authorize refills until I'm sure you're working with us and our Methadone prescriptions have to be filled here. Otherwise, you're an adult; you don't need babysitting. What you do need is adequate pain relief which you obviously have not been getting. What do you say?"

"I'm on board," House replied.

"Then let's get started. You don't have to throw your Vicodin away yet. We're going to wean you on to Methadone over three days. On day 1, replace your morning and nighttime doses of Vicodin with Methadone. You can still take Vicodin during the day. On day 2, take Methadone in the morning, one dose in the afternoon and at nighttime. The rest of the day, take Vicodin. On day 3, switch over to all Methadone. If you decide to throw your Vicodin out, do it on day 4 after you're switched over to all Methadone."

Wilson was still in the exam room with House and Dr. Huynh. "I still can't believe you trust me to manage my own medications," House said.

"I have to. If you don't cooperate, this program won't work for you. Obviously you need it to work or you would never have investigated alternate pain relief methods in the past. I have to trust you."

Wilson tried unsuccessfully to conceal a smirk. House caught Wilson's smirk and glared right back at him.

"What am I missing?" Dr. Huynh asked, looking at the two men.

"Nothing," both men answered in unison.

House observed Dr. Huynh doing a lot of typing at the computer keyboard. Obviously the man was documenting everything that happened during that visit. House kept craning his neck trying to see what Dr. Huynh was writing.

"Since when do you care about accurate charting, or any charting?" Wilson asked, laughing a little.

"Since whatever he's writing involves me."

"What do you need to see? I can print whatever you need or you can access it online yourself from your home computer," Dr. Huynh said.

"Don't need it. I was just curious. My team does all my charting and most of that is still on paper. If I have to touch a computer, it's for playing a game or hacking my team's email accounts."

"Or for PhotoShopping old movies I made in college and changing them into pornos," Wilson said.

"Everything we do here is online. I haven't documented on paper in over a year. Our patients have online access to almost all of their health information. Pretty much everything that gets documented during an exam is available for the patient to view online."

"How do you keep people from hacking into other patient medical records? That's practically his specialty," Wilson said, pointing to House.

"It's all encrypted and password protected. It seems pretty secure so far. I don't really know that much about the IT side of all this – I just know it's easier for us to get all our charting done online."

"Well, I need to go. Give me the scrip," House said, asking for his Methadone prescription.

"Doesn't work that way. We transmit all Methadone prescriptions online to our pharmacy here and they fill it for you. Although we do have paper prescription forms, we only use them if the computers are down. Transmitting prescriptions to the pharmacy online reduces the possibility of prescription fraud or forgery."

"I do want to see you back here three days from now. You need to write down every dose of Vicodin and every dose of Methadone that you take, and by day three you should be switched over completely to Methadone. I need to see you on day three so I can figure out whatever maintenance dose you should be on. Today, you'll get a prescription for the amount of Methadone you'll need for the next three days. When you come back, I'll write a new prescription for your maintenance dose and we'll go over what to do if you have breakthrough pain."

"So you trust me a little, but you don't trust me one hundred percent. If you did, you wouldn't just dole out a three day supply."

"It has nothing to do with personal trust. It's institutional policy."

"If I was a cancer patient on my deathbed, sucking down Methadone every four hours, you wouldn't dole out a three day supply and then make me come in begging for more," House challenged him.

"Shut up and do what he says, House," Wilson said firmly as he rose from his chair, preparing to leave with House.


	4. Chapter 4

**A short chapter, I know, but there's a reason. I just couldn't continue this chapter after the last line. I thought that was an interesting way to end the chapter. Chapter 5 is done and should be up in a day or so after I've had a chance to proofread it. I'm looking forward to Charity Case tonight!**

After making his next appointment with the clinic administrative assistant, House followed Wilson out to Wilson's car. The plan was for him to come back in three days after he was completely switched over to Methadone. After those three days the doctor would check House's medication notes and his pain levels. Then House would continue the loading doses of Methadone for another five days. The total induction period for Methadone was eight days. After a total of eight days, House was to come in for a third visit with Dr. Huynh and his maintenance dose would be determined.

The day was cool. It was still early fall, but winter was peeping around the corner. House had come prepared. He had no spare fat on his body and his long, lean frame got cold easily. His nice leather biker jacket was in Wilson's back seat, and he pulled it on. Wilson was clad, as usual, in a business shirt, tie, and khaki pants. No jacket. If he was cold, he didn't show it.

Wilson backed out of the handicapped parking space. Evening rush hour was in full swing and the traffic was heavy. They waited to make a right turn into traffic for what seemed an interminable amount of time. For once, Wilson seemed the nervous one; drumming his fingers on the dash board and scanning the cross traffic for a break allowing him to make his turn. House sighed, relaxed back into the passenger seat and closed his eyes. He had something to say.

"Since you're not going to say it, I'll say it for you. You think I should have done this years ago," House said to Wilson. Wilson kept his eyes forward on the road and thought for a moment before speaking. He stopped drumming his fingers. The cross traffic wasn't going to let up any time soon and nobody else seemed to be charitable enough to yield to him and let him in. He turned his head for a moment to House.

"You know what I think? It's going to be difficult but I have to stop telling you what you should and shouldn't do. First, you don't listen. Second, all it does is piss us both off in the end, me primarily. Third, we're both adults. You're not my dad and I'm not yours. Fourth, you're older than me. Fifth, I'm probably not the best example of what anyone else should or shouldn't do. I could go on and on but you've already stopped listening to me anyway. All I'm asking is, please work with everybody so you don't wind up back in jail and I wind up alone again."

House's eyebrows shot up when he heard the last part of that sentence.

"You don't want to wind up alone 'again'."

"No."

"So all those other times when you bailed on me, you wanted to be alone, but now you don't?"

Wilson didn't reply. If this was some kind of trap, he wasn't going to fall into it. Besides, traffic had let up a little and there was room to make his turn. He turned a hard right into traffic and House continued.

"Relax. Being alone is nice sometimes. Not being alone is even nicer."


	5. Chapter 5

As they neared home, House scanned the surroundings. Something was wrong with the parking situation. When they turned onto Baker Street, someone else's car was sitting in House's parking space. The space should have been empty, waiting for Wilson's car. His bike was still sitting in its usual corner right by the door. But his reserved parking spot was occupied with someone else's car. Every condo owner had one reserved parking spot. His spot was marked with his condo number (221B) and a handicapped parking sign. His spot should have been vacant. While House was in jail, Wilson had gotten a temporary handicapped hang tag for his own car; Wilson should have been able to park the Volvo in House's spot.

There were unreserved, public parking spots for guests, but they were too far away for him to comfortably walk back to his home. He didn't want to let on to Wilson that a walk of more than about fifty feet would be too much. He had walked that far and more many times, but never without a price. Every time he had to walk longer than about fifty or seventy five feet at a stretch, his leg bit back extra hard later on that night.

Early on, right after had adjusted to using the cane, people around him would remark to him how agile he seemed to be with the cane. For a "gimp", he could move pretty fast. People had admonished him that he should use the cane in his left hand, but he had found that using the cane in his right hand enabled him to move faster. That didn't necessarily mean he could walk longer distances. It just meant that he could walk short distances faster. It came in handy in the hospital when he didn't have to go very far, and moving faster than his team reinforced his authority over them.

Limping along at lightning speed proved to be a disadvantage when the distance from the car to wherever he was going was longer than about fifty feet. The leg just wouldn't go that far, fast or slow, cane or no cane.

Wilson stopped in the middle of the street, next to the offending car and in front of House's unit. House's eyes were nervously scanning up and down the street. Obviously House saw that the only available parking spot was almost three blocks away. Wilson looked at House empathetically. "Relax. I'm letting you out here. I'll go find a place to park. Don't worry about it."

"I should key the bastard's car. Or slash the tires. Or dump bird shit all over his windshield. No, wait," House said with a devious expression and a devilish smile on his face. He gripped the cane furiously.

"Jail, remember?" Wilson reminded him sharply. "Put a lid on it."

"It's MY spot. I own it," he said, massaging his thigh, "and I earned it too."

"I know. If you don't want to go back to jail, put a lid on it, go in, relax and we'll deal with it later," Wilson said calmly and soothingly. "Take a deep breath and go on in."

"I should call the f…ing cops on him right now."

Exasperated, Wilson exclaimed, "And have them come to your house? Really? You want to call the cops and have them come to your home so you can file a report on some idiot who's parked illegally in your spot. You, who just got out of jail and are currently on house arrest. Not going to happen. Get out, and go in. Hurry up. We're blocking traffic."

Muttering under his breath the whole time, House climbed out of Wilson's car and loudly thumped his way to his front door. He turned back, glared angrily at the offending strange car, and Wilson honked at him as he drove down the street to find a parking spot.

Inside his own domicile again, it occurred to House (not for the first time) how tied down he really was. Even here in his own home, Mercer County Department of Corrections officials were still tracking his ankle monitor on GPS.

Even though he knew nobody else could see him, he still felt like he was on public display. Even before his recent stay in jail, he had become accustomed to leaving the bathroom door open at home. No need to close the bathroom door when there's nobody else there to see you. Things were different now. House had to use the bathroom. He was still alone in his home because Wilson was still walking back from the parking space three blocks away. House stood there in front of the crapper with the bathroom door closed and still felt like he was on display because of that damn thing on his ankle.

He had to urinate something fierce, but the flow of urine wouldn't start. He turned the water on and waited. Nothing happened for the longest time except the burning discomfort from a full bladder got worse. He imagined that the same strange men he'd been surrounded by in jail were sitting at a desk watching him on a webcam and laughing. Objectively he knew the ankle monitor did not contain a webcam and there was no webcam installed in his home, but subjectively that's exactly what it felt like and his body reacted to the subjective, not the objective. Subjectively, it felt like there was a webcam in his ankle monitor aimed right up at the privates and the men on the other end of the monitor were laughing at the obvious problem.

_Vicodin causes urinary retention. So does Methadone. Wait, I haven't started the Methadone yet. I haven't taken any more Vicodin than usual. But stress can cause it too. Stress + Vicodin = of course I can't pee. Doesn't help that my crazy mind thinks they're staring at me, either._

In a desperate attempt to quell these persistent thoughts that guards were staring at him through a non-existent Webcam in his ankle monitor and laughing at him, House went to his bedroom and got a pair of thick black knee socks. He already had a pair of ankle socks on under the monitor. He removed the ankle socks and put the thick black knee socks on over the ankle monitor. The socks were long enough to cover the ankle monitor and thick and dark enough that even if there had been a Webcam on his ankle, the lens would be covered.

With his ankle monitor covered up and out of his view, he felt like he might be able to at least temporarily put it out of his mind. As the old saying goes, "Out of sight, out of mind." He took a few deep breaths, limped back into the bathroom, turned the water on and within a few moments, had no trouble taking care of business.

He heard Wilson come back in.

"You alright? Need anything?" Wilson called out to him.

"I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute."

"I'm ordering Indian for dinner. I know you like Vindaloo curry. Want to try Vindaloo curried lamb? I'm up for that if you are," Wilson said, dialing the number for the new Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner that had only been open for a few months.

"Sure. I've heard about that place but I haven't been there yet. Supposed to be good."

_Vindaloo Curry._ Now that brought back some good memories with Stacy.

Having accomplished what he went into the bathroom to do, he pulled his knee socks back up again and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was getting long. He normally wore his hair a bit shorter and had, up until recently, worn hair pieces to cover his bald spot. He always thought those hair pieces looked good. Wilson had tried to tell him over the years to stop wearing them; that his bald spot made him look even sexier than he already was. He had to remove his hair piece in jail because it was another one of those insane jail rules. Weapons can be hidden under hair pieces.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought he looked odd with long thin hair and no wig to cover up the bald area. But he had to admit, he felt a lot more comfortable without the wig. And then, he saw Wilson in the mirror.

"God, you look great! I never get to see you without the wig! You should leave it off for good!"

"Oh, shut up," House replied gruffly.

"I'm serious! I wish you'd burn those things. Seriously. You don't need them. You're sexy to begin with but hell, you're about a hundred percent hotter without the fake hair. Leave it off!" Wilson said.

"I can't believe you're drooling over someone that still stinks like jail. I need a shower and I need a hair cut. Know any barbers who'll cut hair here? I doubt the authorities will ignore the damn monitor if I try to escape to a barber shop."

"The food won't be here for another forty five minutes or so. I brought my 'Michael' for men if you still need to de-stink yourself after your shower."

"You brought another guy?"

'Michael' is a men's fragrance, dumb ass," Wilson replied, as he turned his back to answer the phone. The Indian restaurant called with a question about their order.

"I know about men's fragrances. I was kidding. Hell, I even know a thing or two about men's skin care products," House called from the bathroom as he stripped to take his shower.

"House, they want to know what you want to drink," Wilson called from the kitchen.

"Alcohol."

"Yeah. What do you want to drink, before they hang up on me?"

"Seven Up," House replied. "It mixes well with Wild Turkey. It makes good cocktails."

"You don't drink cocktails. You CAN'T drink cocktails, or any kind of alcohol," Wilson said after he added House's Seven Up to the order and hung up the phone.

"I was 21 thirty one years ago. I can drink whatever I want."

Wilson came back to the bathroom to tackle this conversation face to face. Well, anyway, face to shower curtain. House was already in the shower.

"Not when you're on house arrest. You'd better double check your paperwork from Mercer County. I bet you're subject to a drug and alcohol test any old time they want to test you," Wilson said.

_Damn._ "My charge had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol. Besides, if they test me, it'll be positive for Vicodin and Methadone metabolites," House tried to argue from behind the shower curtain.

"Read your paperwork," Wilson said as he retreated back to the kitchen.

The delivery guy from the Indian restaurant arrived with the delicious smelling food and two large soft drinks. Wilson paid the guy and tipped him extra handsomely for waiting on the phone while House decided what he wanted to drink.

The sumptuous, tempting odor of hot curried lamb wafted its way back to the bathroom. House's mouth was watering. His stomach was growling. It was time to eat now. He hurriedly ended his shower, toweled off, shrugged on his old flannel bathrobe and slippers and limped out to the kitchen.

He had a tiny puzzle to solve before it was time to eat, though. Positioned prominently on his antique wooden operating table that served as a kitchen table was his file from Mercer County Department of Corrections. Anxious to prove Wilson wrong, House snatched the file and opened it to the page in question. The print was so tiny he had trouble reading it even with his glasses on, but sure enough, there it was.

"Inmate" (_there's that damn word again_) "is subject to random, unannounced visits from the Mercer County Department of Corrections or their designee during which random urine drug and alcohol screening may be performed. In the event that urine tests positive for anything other than hydrocodone or methadone metabolites, inmate is in violation of house arrest conditions and subject to blood testing and immediate incarceration."

_Double damn_.

"You shouldn't be drinking alcohol anyway," Wilson said, going back into preacher mode if even for just a few minutes.

"You said you weren't going to tell me how to live my life."

"Yeah, I know, and I'll stop, but it's difficult to ignore the big white elephant that's been living in this apartment for years," Wilson said.

"You mean the big white pill?"

"No. The big white elephant. Booze. You're alcoholic. If I hadn't just said I wasn't going to tell you how to live your life, I'd suggest you get treatment for it. I'd even help you along the way. But you won't, so like I said earlier, I should just zip my lip."

"I like the taste of alcohol! That doesn't mean I'm an alcoholic. It tastes good. Maker's Mark and Wild Turkey are particularly tasty."

"They're tastier than prison food which you'll be eating this time tomorrow if you drink tonight and they show up for a urine test," Wilson said.

House remained silent.

"House, please don't get tossed back in jail again. We can talk about this later…" and House interrupted with, "or never."

Wilson resumed, "As I was saying, we can talk about this later. I'm not sorry I said it. I should have said it years ago. Please don't violate the conditions of your house arrest. I want you here with me, not locked up behind bars."

House remained silent for a few moments, then spoke softly with his head in his hands. "The prison medical staff suggested AA."

Now it was Wilson's turn to remain silent.

"I know I'm an alcoholic," House muttered softly. Then he raised his head out of his hands and looked defiantly at Wilson. "I'm not ready for AA. But I won't drink tonight. Can we just eat and let this go?"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N – just for the fun of it, I injected a few subtle references. See if you can find the reference to Hugh's CD. Also I snuck in a little reference to the fact that I'm losing weight. See if you can find that reference!**

Wilson and House mutually agreed to table any further talk about booze. House had taken a major step in even beginning to talk about it in the first place. Wilson was trying to wean himself away from taking on House's problems. It was difficult, to say the least.

The next few days on house arrest passed without a hitch. While he would probably never admit it, House secretly loved having another doctor trust him enough to follow the prescribed protocol, and managed to wean himself off Vicodin and on to Methadone without too much trouble. He'd always had trouble trusting others and thought it was perfectly normal and even acceptable that people didn't trust him. In fact, he'd been told he "lived down" to their expectations many times. Perhaps he'd set such a low bar that everyone else felt like they could just walk over it any old time they wanted. That's why it was so difficult for him to grasp the concept that Dr. Huynh trusted him.

There were a few pain breakthroughs, but they were easily managed with the breakthrough Methadone dose. He noticed that he wasn't taking as much Methadone as he thought he would be.

Prison authorities had called several times but they were just routine calls to confirm that the ankle monitor was still attached as it should be. GPS indicated that the monitor had never been to any place other than his home and the pain clinic, and they just needed to confirm that the monitor was still attached to the "inmate", as they referred to him.

On the third day House dutifully reported to the pain clinic as prescribed, and he even called a cab to get there. Wilson had already left for work, so House had to find his own ride to the clinic. Wilson was slowly getting used to the idea of letting House work out his own problems. Building and restoring trust was still virgin territory for them.

Transportation was obviously a problem. One of the issues that had popped up after his arrest was that his driver's license had been suspended. It hadn't been revoked yet because there was no conviction yet. The worst they could do for now was to suspend it. That's bad enough. He couldn't operate any kind of motor vehicle on a suspended license. He had to rely on Wilson, a bus or a cab to get anywhere. The pain clinic was not on a bus route. Wilson reluctantly left the issue of transportation up to House to resolve on his own. It was another one of those issues that he could easily have worried about, but House needed to resolve that on his own. Either he would ride his motorcycle illegally and risk being arrested again or he would cooperate and find some other way to get there. Either way, it was House's issue to take care of. Wilson could not just stay home permanently, at House's beck and call. He had to go back to work and House needed to take care of his own transportation problems.

So the only feasible means of transportation to and from the pain clinic, at least for today, was a cab.

House expected the cab to be an older, rather rickety looking smelly old yellow cab similar to the ones so pervasive on New York City streets. The kind of cab with a solid Plexiglas divider between the back and front seats; one that looked like it was really a well-used police car instead of a cab.

The cab that pulled up in front of his door was a relatively new looking white sedan. It was clean, it smelled nice, it was comfortable, and most importantly, the driver didn't mind assisting a cantankerous passenger.

"Where to?" the cabbie said pleasantly, after House was safely in the cab.

"Mercer County Pain Clinic." That was all House said. No address.

"What's the address?"

"You don't know the local streets? How long have you been driving a cab here?" House asked sarcastically. It was hard enough for him to comply with the requirement that he not ride his motorcycle. He needed to take it out on someone and this guy seemed like a likely candidate.

"I know the area well. I've just never heard of the Mercer County Pain Clinic. I need the address."

"Fine. I don't want to be late." House pulled out the business card with the address on it and thrust it in the general direction of the cab driver's hand.

"That's quite a hike. We should make it fairly quickly, though. Traffic's not too bad. What's your name?" the cabbie said pleasantly as he flicked the meter on and pulled away from the curb.

House had his iPod on and his earbuds were in his ears. A great British musician was singing a Blind Blake song, wailing away about a police dog pissing on everybody's pants. House really had no intention of talking to the cabbie anyway and this was the perfect way to tune him out.

The cabbie was not used to complete silence from passengers. Usually they would start talking a little bit after a few minutes. The cabbie liked to talk. It made the time pass faster and it made for a pleasant trip – usually.

When his current passenger failed to reply to the question about his name, the cabbie looked in the rear view mirror at his passenger. His passenger's eyes were closed and the man was moving his hands as if he was playing a piano.

After about half an hour of complete silence in the car, the cab pulled up in front of the Mercer County Pain Clinic.

"We're here," the cabbie announced.

House, who had plainly been asleep, startled awake. "I know. Thanks," he said, pulling out a wad of bills to pay the man. House tipped him well too.

"Give us a call when you're ready for the return trip. Have a good day," the cabbie said to House's back as House made his way in to the building.

The days were gradually growing colder. This was a morning appointment, and it was still too early for the day to have warmed up much. It was a beautiful, clear, sunny October morning, and the temperature was about 48 degrees Fahrenheit. A fair number of overweight people were seen walking about outside in shirt sleeves. The weather was turning cooler rapidly, but fat people were still comfortable in shirt sleeves. House had on a long-sleeved tee shirt under that biker jacket and a wool cap on his head.

The waiting room was not as busy as he thought it would be for ten am. At ten o'clock in the morning in the PPTH clinic waiting room, the place would be full to the rafters with snot-nosed, whiny kids, constipated old people and middle-aged adults who clearly had nothing wrong with them except the need to justify calling in sick to work after a night of drinking.

There were about four people in the pain clinic waiting room, all occupied with checking their phones or filling out some kind of paperwork. One man had a TENS unit on, and House found himself fascinated by the idea of using a TENS unit himself.

House's name was called quickly – much quicker than he expected. It was nice not to have to wait an hour after the scheduled appointment time to be seen.

The nurse showed him back to the exam room, but first they had to stop at the scale. "What the hell is this for?" House crowed. "I'm not at Weight Watchers. I don't need to weigh."

"Yes, you do. We didn't weigh you during your first visit, and we need a baseline weight as part of the formula for calculating your maintenance dose. Do you need help stepping up on the scale?" the nurse asked politely.

"No, I don't 'need help stepping up on the scale'," House mimicked her as he stood there for a minute, apparently contemplating something. "Yes, I do. Hold on to this," he said after he stepped up onto the scale. He didn't want the added weight of the cane showing up on the scale. He actually didn't need any help – he rarely did – he just wanted to screw with the nurse if he could. He could have propped the cane against the wall, next to the scale, but he rudely shoved the cane in the general direction of the nurse instead. He felt like trying to irritate the nurse. This office was full of sickly-sweet people and it was fun to try to provoke them. So far he hadn't had any luck. They all appeared to be completely unflappable. She just smiled more sweetly as she reached out to hold his cane for him.

This was a baseline weight, so they had no previous weights to compare it to. House, though, was a bit alarmed at the number. He had lost a bit of weight and he didn't have any weight to lose. He chalked it up to the bad jail food and the stress of all his recent legal trouble. Vicodin had dulled his sense of taste years ago, but he still managed to keep his weight pretty stable. Vicodin also contributed to a wicked chronic problem with constipation. The only other time he'd been on Methadone, he wasn't actually on it long enough to find out what effect it would have on his digestive system, and as of today he'd only been on exclusively Methadone for a little over twenty four hours, so it would still be awhile before he found out the extent of the effects it would have on his GI system.

Dr. Huynh obviously wasn't too busy, because House didn't have long to wait in the exam room before Dr. Huynh walked in. "I see you kept good records," the doctor said as House produced his little notebook. Every dose of Vicodin and every dose of Methadone was clearly and neatly printed in the book along with what time he took them and how much pain he was feeling at the time.

House just smiled. When it involved someone else, House could care less about good recordkeeping. When it involved him, though, he documented everything to the nth degree. There was no need to steal extra doses or forge prescriptions as long as he cooperated with Dr. Huynh and the pain clinic staff.

"Not many people keep such good records of their pain medication doses. Well done. This helps me immensely. It's time to determine your maintenance dose. I'll write your maintenance prescription, you'll get it filled here just like you did the loading doses for the last three days, and you'll come back in a week for a follow up. I can give you a one month supply."

House was stunned. _Someone actually trusts me with a one month supply._

"Did I say something that surprised you?" Dr. Huynh said pleasantly, noticing House's stunned expression.

Hesitating a little, House explained. "When I was on Vicodin, my friend wrote the scrips but he would never write for more than a one week's supply, and he would never authorize refills. I had to get a new written prescription every week from him." House didn't elaborate about all the times he forged prescriptions or stole pills from patients.

"Your friend is not a pain doctor. Different pharmacies have different policies about how they handle prescriptions for controlled substances. That's one reason why we offer the option of getting prescriptions filled here. I could give you a written prescription for your Methadone to fill at an outside pharmacy, but some pharmacies won't fill a one month's supply and some won't allow refills without calling me first. Since not all pharmacies are the same we give patients the option of getting their prescriptions filled here. It helps us out too because we can keep a closer eye on your medications. We can't prohibit patients from using an outside pharmacy if they choose; we just ask that patients only get their prescriptions filled at one place because it makes it easier to manage medications when one pharmacy handles all of them."

Dr. Huynh went on. "In your case, though, I want you to get your prescriptions filled here at least for now. Of all our patients, you've been on narcotics the longest, and any changes to your pain management regimen need to be very closely monitored. We need to check your liver and kidney function and all that. So I'll write a scrip for the labs I want drawn today. You need to get them drawn here. We have a lab right down the hall. I'll also have the pharmacy get your maintenance Methadone set up and you can pick it up at the pharmacy when you get done at the lab. Do you want pills or the liquid?"

"Pills," House replied. "The liquid tastes horrible."

"Oh, and I have a question."

"Sure, what's up?" Dr. Huynh said pleasantly.

"I saw a man in the waiting room with a TENS unit on. I've never tried one, but I've thought about it a lot. I haven't tried one yet because the skin around my scar is sometimes numb and I wouldn't be able to tell if the electrodes from the TENS unit were burning me or not."

"It's good to hear that you've thought about it. I have thought about it for your use, too. We may add a TENS unit later on. For now I want to get you stabilized on Methadone. After you're off house arrest and you can get rid of the ankle monitor, I want you to consider a program they have at the YMCA for people with arthritis. I realize your main problem is not arthritis, but a gentle aqua therapy program designed for people with arthritis might really help you stay limber and avoid or treat back and other joint problems," Dr. Huynh said.

"Yeah, just what I'm looking forward to; being ogled in the pool by an army of grey-haired octogenarians," House laughed.

Dr. Huynh chuckled and handed House the paperwork he would need for the lab. The nurse showed him where the lab was. It was nice having a pharmacy and the lab all in the same small building and on the same floor.

Since there were so few patients being seen by doctors in the pain clinic that day, the lab wasn't busy either and House got his blood drawn without having to wait. The lab tech was another in a long line of employees there with unflappably pleasant dispositions. House was getting tired of trying to irritate these people. The folks in the lab were all wearing Philadelphia Phillies baseball jerseys. As it turned out, the Phillies were in the middle of a series of games with the St. Louis Cardinals. The Cardinals had already won one game, and the lab employees were rooting for the Phillies to win the next two.

"Ouch! Don't stick me so hard! Why are you taking your anger out on me!" House said loudly, even though the needle went in quick and couldn't have hurt much. The tech was very good at his job and it only took one quick stick to get the blood. There wasn't really much House could do to try to irritate the guy since the blood draw was over with so quickly. House couldn't help but notice, though, that the guy saw all the old healed track marks from when he'd injected the study drug. House hadn't been in jail all that long. The most recent surgery to remove the two remaining tumors and clean his leg up had only been a few weeks ago, and the track marks from the drug he injected before the surgery were still there. It was rather amazing that the technician was able to find a vein so quickly given that House had already scarred up most of the veins in both of his arms to inject the experimental drug.

"Please put your finger on that," the tech asked as he put a small piece of gauze over the bleeding needle stick site. The tech was used to cooperative patients who didn't want to bleed. House held the gauze for about two seconds and then got up to leave while his arm dripped a few drops of blood on the chair.

"Oops," House said with a smirk, thinking he'd finally irritated the tech enough to get a decent response out of him.

"Your blood, not mine. I'd think you'd want to keep it in your body," the tech said with a smile as he grabbed a towel with some disinfectant on it and wiped up the few drops.

Out in the waiting room with a clean band-aid on his arm, House whipped out his cell phone and called the cab company. He was not a patient man, so when he was told he would have to wait (just like everyone else) a number of smart-ass comments came to mind. Then a little voice, common sense perhaps, told him that if he pissed this dispatcher off badly enough she'd never send him a cab. He decided to bite his tongue and just accept what she'd told him. There would be about a thirty minute wait.

The waiting room had one other occupant; a small, wiry old man who was also obviously waiting for a ride home. The man had a cane with a rich brown finish, a beautiful thing with gold inlay and mother of pearl adornments. House would never have given the man a second thought except for the fact that he had a beautiful cane.

The small man noticed that House had been staring at his cane. "Got it in New Orleans. Ain't it a beaut? Cost me $500," the man said from his chair.

"Didn't ask, don't wanna know," House said.

"They made it special for me. You'd have to order one special made for you. They don't sell 'em like this in stores."

"Still didn't ask, and still don't wanna know," House said, although he clearly wanted that cane. He just didn't want to talk to the man.

"Boy, you're a party pooper," the old man said forlornly.

House was still trying to figure out how to switch canes with the old gentleman. Maybe the old guy was deaf enough that if he fell asleep, he wouldn't hear House come over and swap canes with him. While House was mulling over his options, he remembered to stop in the pharmacy there and get his prescription.

Inside the pharmacy, waiting for his prescription, some wild thoughts began running through House's mind. Years of experience with red tape involved in getting narcotic prescriptions filled had taught House to be assertive with pharmacists and had also taught him to be creative in trying to figure out ways to get around all the red tape. House was so used to having trouble from pharmacists getting his Vicodin prescriptions filled that he was unprepared for the quick service this pharmacist provided.

When his prescription was ready, all House had to do was provide a photo ID and pay what was due. The whole transaction took about 5 minutes and the only thing the pharmacist asked him was if he had any questions about his prescription. House looked at his prescription bottles like they were treasures to behold. One bottle was his maintenance Methadone, enough to last a month. The other bottle was a little smaller and contained smaller doses of Methadone that he was to use as needed for breakthrough pain. The smaller bottle appeared to contain more than enough supplemental doses for a month especially since House had noticed he wasn't taking as much Methadone as he thought he would.

Someone trusted him enough to dispense more than a week's worth of medication. Someone trusted him enough to even give him additional doses in case of breakthrough pain.

Someone trusted him enough not to ask him a hundred questions about a perfectly legal, properly prescribed and very necessary pain medication.

He knew that people in his past had reasons not to trust him just like he didn't trust most other people. He also knew that if he was going to succeed in turning his life around this time, at least a little bit, he was going to have to work with these people instead of against them. As difficult as it was for him not to screw with people and find angles to get around what he knew he needed to do, it was in his best interest to cooperate with them. They were offering him something that he needed and craved more than anything else – a chance to be pain-free.

Every other chance at being pain-free had evaporated. That time he faked brain cancer to get into the drug trial in Boston was a good example. He faked the cancer but not the pain that the experimental drug might have alleviated. Nobody seemed to understand that he was really that desperate to get pain relief. He thought Cameron might have understood, but then she made that comment about him just wanting to get high. He remembered shrugging and blowing her off when she said that because if he'd told her the truth he thought she wouldn't have believed him anyway. People believe what they want to believe. But when the folks in Boston who were running the study found out he faked the cancer, well, he kissed that chance bye-bye.

Then there was the Ketamine treatment that failed. Wilson made that insipid comment about House not knowing the difference between temporary pain caused by an overtaxed muscle and permanent pain caused by nerve damage, and it was obvious to House that Wilson didn't believe him either. Worse yet, Wilson, Cuddy and Cameron conspired to keep a secret from him in the mistaken belief that his pain was mostly in his mind.

Then there was the first time he tried Methadone. It worked, oh God, it worked, and finally he was pain free if just for brief periods of time between doses. But then his patient crashed because he missed something he thought he wouldn't have missed if he'd been thinking more clearly. So he voluntarily stopped it and went back on Vicodin.

And now recently, the experimental compound that was supposed to help re-grow muscle tissue. Re-growing muscle tissue might not have helped with the nerve pain but if he had increased strength in his leg, he might be able to walk more normally. He had held out hope that increased mobility and strength in his leg might also help him feel like his life was a little better too. But then that blew up just like everything else did, and almost killed him in the process.

Everyone around him seemed to think he liked taking the Vicodin. People would believe whatever they wanted to believe, so he let them believe that myth. It was easier to let them believe he really liked the stuff than to tell them how much he really hated it. In his mind, if he told them how much he really hated having to take the stuff, then the logical reaction would be for them to wonder why he hadn't sought out yet another pain relief method. As awful as the side effects were, they were still better than suffering constantly. At least he knew he could get a little relief and still keep a sharp mental edge.

When the Ketamine treatment began to fail, he tried valiantly to stay off the Vicodin even as the pain returned in earnest. He'd even told Wilson that he didn't want to "become dependent on pain pills". A more accurate way to phrase that might have been, "I don't want to become dependent on pain pills again."

Vicodin was never meant for long term use, but House couldn't see any other options for pain relief up until now. Every time he went off of it and then had to go back on it again, it seemed like a step backward to him. Another window closed. Another door closed. Vicodin had wreaked havoc on his body. It dulled his taste buds, dulled his appetite, made him constipated, and was starting to affect his hearing too. It had similarly unpleasant side effects on Little Greg as well. Most of the time "sex" really just consisted of dirty talk, kissing, touching boobs and having fantasies, because the Vicodin made it almost impossible for Little Greg to actually stand up and salute. He had to take the little blue pills to try to combat that, and occasionally the little blue pills worked, but more often, Vicodin won out and Little Greg just slept through it all.

So yeah, he hated having to take the Vicodin. Up until now, he thought of it as a necessary evil.

The chance to live a happy, pain-free life on Methadone, a chance that he wouldn't be criticized or arrested for, was enthralling.

Even with the ankle monitor on, House almost felt like a free man as he walked out of the clinic with his Methadone prescription in hand.

As he sat on the bench outside the clinic waiting for the cab, the day began to warm up a little more. He did something he didn't get a chance to do as often as he wanted, especially since there were so few places he could still smoke. He lit a cigarette and took a long, deep, drawn out drag. _God, that tastes good,_ House thought as he slowly exhaled and watched the smoke drift slowly upward toward the clear, blue, sunny sky.

Then he saw a Princeton police car drive slowly by. The policeman was just on a routine patrol and didn't even look twice at House. House wasn't doing anything illegal or anything that would violate his house arrest, but suddenly he became acutely aware that he technically was not "in" the Mercer County Pain Clinic. He was "outside" of it. He panicked and wondered if the folks monitoring him at the other end were smart enough to realize he was still where he was supposed to be even if he wasn't technically inside the building. He grabbed his cell phone and hurriedly dialed the ankle monitor number. He punched Option 4 to speak to a live operator.

"Hi, my name is Gregory House and I just need to report I'm still at the Mercer County Pain Clinic. I'm just sitting on a bench outside of the building waiting for a cab to take me home."

"Thank you, Mr. House, your monitor location is confirmed at the Mercer County Pain Clinic. Have a good day," the operator said tersely.

The bad thing, or one of the bad things, about digging oneself out of trouble with the law is that every time a cop car drives by, every time one sees a police officer, in fact every time one sees a security officer of any kind, the heart begins to beat two or three times faster than normal. Panic sets in and so does paranoia. _They're going to haul me back._

House was beginning to experience this normal reaction. He was so sure that the policeman who'd passed him recently was secretly calling on the radio for backup, waiting to spring on him, that he actually started acting a little suspiciously. He stubbed out the cigarette for fear that someone might report him for smoking on the grounds of the clinic. The clinic was a no smoking facility but the only part of it that was actually non smoking was the interior of the building. People were still free to smoke outside the building even if it was on the clinic's grounds. House didn't care about what other people were doing. He kept looking around as if he was paranoid about being caught smoking.

The paranoia didn't really set in until he saw the cop. _Is this what it's going to be like every damn time I see a cop? Geez._

Then his objective, rational mind began to take over. _Relax. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I wasn't doing anything to violate my house arrest. Calm down. It was just a cop on a routine patrol. There's going to be a lot more cops on the street too. Can't bug out every time I see one of 'em or they really will have a reason to be suspicious of me._

Before long, the now-familiar white sedan with the meter on top and the cab company's name painted on both sides pulled into the Mercer County Pain Clinic parking lot and up to the curb in front of the bench House was sitting on. _Curbside service for the handicapped. Oh, how nice,_ House thought more than just a little sarcastically.

The ride back home was uneventful because the only words House uttered were those necessary to convey his home address. He was crabby; that was nothing new. What was new and difficult to get used to was the fact that these cab drivers were quickly becoming a necessary but irritating pain in his ass that wasn't going to go away very quickly. This one was a different guy but he was still nice and pleasant and all he wanted to do was talk when House just wanted to be quiet. Same as the first driver and, no doubt, the same as all the other drivers House would have to suffer through until he could get this mess cleared up and get his driver's license and his independence back.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N – This chapter includes a shout out to Coldstone Creamery. I'm on Weight Watchers losing a ton of weight and I haven't been to Coldstone Creamery since I started Weight Watchers 59 pounds and 16 weeks ago. I miss my Coldstone. It's by far the tastiest ice cream treat I've ever had. My favorite of their ice cream creations was Birthday Cake Remix. If I could, I'd make their Birthday Cake Remix fat free and sugar free. Then on my birthday I'd enjoy a few bites of my favorite fat free treat with my favorite man Hugh Laurie sitting right across from me at my favorite ice cream spot, him drooling at my new svelte figure … Hey, a girl can dream, right Ok, I'm not svelte yet, but I will be when my birthday rolls around again September of 2012!**

Wilson arrived home from work exhausted. House looked up from his laid-back position on the sofa. His arms and legs were draped lazily all over the couch. He'd been watching a gross scene on the Discovery Channel depicting a big lion devouring another animal's rotting carcass. The lion was clearly enjoying every morsel. He was the king, the leader of the pride. He was a lean, mean, lovin' machine and he ruled that carcass. All the other lions cowered before him. Nobody else ate until he was done. House was engrossed in the scene. It turned Wilson's stomach.

"Look what the cat dragged in," House smirked.

Wilson walked past him silently, shoulders slumped, and threw himself down on the bed.

A few minutes later, Wilson heard the familiar thump-step, thump-step, thump-step of House's uneven gait. He turned to see House's long, lean, lanky frame in the doorway.

"Wanna tell me all about it?" House asked.

"I missed a diagnosis," Wilson muttered.

"We've all missed diagnoses. It happens. What did you miss?"

"I feel like an idiot. Worse, I feel like an idiot who cut someone's life short because of my idiocy."

"Go on," House said quietly, obviously and increasingly concerned.

"I had a patient with acute myelocytic leukemia. She'd been tolerating chemo and radiation pretty well up until recently. About two months ago she reported to me that she'd been a little short of breath doing things she used to be able to do with no problem. I chalked it up to being a side effect of her treatment. The last two times I saw her in the office, her oxygen saturation on room air was fine, she wasn't short of breath, and auscultation of her lungs revealed nothing out of the ordinary. She told me the shortness of breath was mild and intermittent and she said she wasn't sure if she should be worried about it. She was looking to me to determine whether or not she should be worried about it. Again, I blew it off as being a side effect of her treatment. She had a routine appointment last week with her internal medicine physician and he got a chest x ray. He called me today with the results. House, she has a tumor in her right lung. She says they think it's inoperable but she's seeking out another surgical opinion and now, another oncologist. I could have caught it two months ago if I hadn't been so quick to chalk it up to a side effect."

Wilson looked about ready to cry.

"Wilson, it's called being human. You know as well as I do that even if you'd caught it two months ago, it still would have been bad news. The only difference is you'd be the one calling the surgical consult instead of her internal medicine physician."

"Yeah, I know all that. I also know that this woman is probably going to die faster because I missed something I should have caught two months ago. She doesn't trust me anymore. House, I need my patients to trust me. I work hard to earn their trust. She told me that she's looking for another oncologist now. She doesn't want to see me anymore."

Wilson no longer looked so much like he was going to cry. He was beginning to get angry.

"Damn it!" Wilson said as he grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. "What's wrong with me? How the hell can I miss something as simple and common as a lung met from AML? Lung mets are a known complication! House, I know that! How the hell could I miss something as simple as that? I could have added another treatment targeted for the lung tumor and then maybe the surgeon would be talking to her about something operable. They'd have reason to give her hope. Now I might as well have signed her goddamn death certificate."

House had been in this situation before. This is something most health care professionals have to deal with sooner or later. House knew, and so did Wilson, that humans are fallible creatures. Nobody's perfect, no matter how hard we try to be. Sometimes there's just nothing to be said. Sometimes there are no words to make it better. Sometimes just being there for the other person is the best comfort measure. House was never good at that. It was always far easier for him to come up with a flippant, off-the-cuff sarcastic remark or joke, to put up a wall and keep the emotion at arm's length.

This was one of those times when emotions simply couldn't be kept at bay. Wilson's raw despair and anger would have simply battered down any wall House tried to put up. House ached for his partner. _Friend. Partner. This is what friends do for each other,_ House thought as he slowly began to wade into uncharted waters.

"Look, I'm new at this but I'm trying," House said as he limped slowly over to Wilson and sat next to him.

"It sounds sappy and stupid but I have to say something and I'm not sure what else to say. I've been there before. I know people think I have a hard heart. I remember every patient I've ever lost. Esther, for example. Everyone thinks I just remember her because she would have been the 201st case of Erdheim-Chester disease. I remember her because she would have been the 201st case of Erdheim-Chester disease and because she was a nice lady. She shouldn't have died. She should still be alive. She should have gone to her grandkid's high school graduation. She didn't get that chance because I didn't have the guts to stand my ground. I knew what was wrong with her but I didn't stand my ground and prove my diagnosis. That's why she died. That'll be on my heart till the day I die. So will the guy I was stuck in isolation with. He was five feet away from me and I missed his diagnosis until Masters pointed it out after he died. AFTER he died. Wilson, the guy's wife and kids watched me watch him die. That will also be on my heart the rest of my life."

Wilson locked eyes with House.

"Point is, it happens. We're human. We live, we learn, and we move on," House said.

Wilson furrowed his brow and stared even harder at House.

"Move on. Yeah, 'move on'. Are you listening to yourself? You've been stuck for as long as I've known you. You don't 'move on'. You CAN'T move on. But you are right. You're right. I just wish you could take your own advice."

"Seriously. Although I know it's your default position, I'm not gonna let you sit here and dwell on this all night. I don't need you miserable. My misery is deep enough. Your misery plus my misery equals an Olympic-sized swimming pool of misery with a diving well too deep for either of us to get out of. Come on, let's get some ice cream. I would say let's get something else, but I don't want to hear the lecture. Let's go get some ice cream and laugh at all the fatties scarfing down Birthday Cake Remix."

House and Wilson chuckled together at that thought. People watching at the ice cream shop was always fun. The place was usually about a third full of yuppies, a third full of morbidly obese people, and the other third usually consisted of bratty kids who wouldn't stop crying or running around the store letting ice cream melt all over the floor and getting in everyone's way. In addition to being a very entertaining place to people watch, they always had some good jazz, pop or blues on the speakers.

"Wonder how they'd feel about the cops showing up to bust you because you're not supposed to be there?" Wilson wondered out loud.

"I can call the monitor number. All I have to do is tell them ahead of time where I'm going. I don't think they'll have a problem with us going to get ice cream," House said, flashing that subtle, crooked smile that was enough to make Wilson melt completely.

"'Us' are not going to the ice cream shop. I'm not gonna explain anything to the poor teenagers dishing out the ice cream when the cops suddenly show up to grab you and scare the shit out of everyone else there. But you're right. Ice cream would go down great. I'll get it. What flavor do you want?" Wilson asked.

"Maker's Mark Remix," House answered with a grin.

"Shut up. They don't have liquor flavored ice cream. Hurry up and tell me what you want or else you get stuck with whatever the hell I decide to get you. Might be yesterday's curdled ice cream that they're throwing out."

"All Lovin' No Oven," House answered. "Get one dish and two spoons. We can spoon over it. Ha Ha. Get it?"

Wilson smiled. The ice cream sounded pretty darn good, and the other thing might not be so bad either. House even pulled out some cash. "You're paying for this? Am I seeing things?" Wilson asked, astounded.

"Yes and yes. You're seeing me pull out some cash to pay you for the ice cream. Go."

"You're going to be alright while I'm gone? You sure?"

"Yes! For God's sake, just go! I promise, I'm fine. Go."

After Wilson left to get the ice cream, House climbed to his feet and cleaned up the apartment. It was not really messy, but the pillows and things on the couch were a little askew from where he'd been laying on the sofa, and there were a few things that needed to be picked up. It would not do for Wilson to come home with All Lovin' No Oven ice cream for both of them, and have the place messy.

House found some good records and loaded up the record player. After he picked up the few errant things and tidied the apartment up, he found some old logs outside (he hadn't built a fire in the fireplace since this time last year) and cleaned out the fireplace. Carrying the logs inside was always tricky, but he found a canvas log carrier that wrapped around the logs that could be carried with one hand. It took a few trips because he carried one log in at a time, but eventually he had three or four logs in the fireplace. With a little bit of kindling he had no trouble getting a nice fire started. There wasn't enough wood for the fire to last all night, but he suspected they wouldn't need the fire to last long anyway.

House marveled at the fact that he'd been able to get through an entire day without significant pain. His leg still hurt, but instead of the usual raging 9 or 10 alarm pain that he used to have at the end of a long day, even with the Vicodin, he rated his current pain as more of a discomfort, on the order of about a 2 or 3 on the pain scale. He'd had his first maintenance Methadone dose earlier right after he got his prescription filled, and it was time for his second maintenance dose. He hadn't had any need for the smaller breakthrough doses. It was nice having the pills too, instead of the liquid. The liquid was disgusting. It tasted like liquid mint-flavored sugar. The pills had no flavor and were small and easy to swallow.

Ensconced on the couch enjoying the fire, he pondered again why Dr. Huynh would trust him to handle his own pain medications when nobody else had for over fifteen years. House was hung up, as usual, on the idea of trust.

It wasn't long before House heard the familiar roar of Wilson's Volvo out front. _Good. My space was empty,_ he thought with satisfaction. And then he did something else unexpected. House, the man who enjoyed tricking people into doing things for him then sitting back and smiling when they realized that they were tricked into doing something they thought they were doing out of the goodness of their heart, got up to see if Wilson needed any help inside with the bags of ice cream.

House opened his front door and went out to help Wilson with the bags.

"Oh my god," Wilson said softly when House got to the car.

"Oh, shut up. Stop acting like you're witnessing a miracle. I've been told that friends do these kinds of things," House said with a smirk and a wink.

"Here, take a bag. I got the All Lovin' No Oven for two, and I also got some of their ice cream cupcakes." House took a bag and the two men made their way inside with the goodies.

Something had been brewing in House recently. He had rarely in his life been in a position where he truly wanted to show gratitude to someone else other than his mother. There had been times with Stacy, especially after the infarction when he took out all of his anger on her, that he did his best to show her he was also grateful to her.

As a little boy he tried hard to do nice things for his father, mistakenly believing that demonstrating love for his father would make his father love him more in return. Most parents teach their children that doing nice things for others makes one feel good, makes one feel valued in return. House's father was not a demonstrative man unless he was demonstrating anger or disappointment. As a result, House learned in his formative years that doing nice things for other people usually earned unwanted attention and resulted in disappointment, in pain.

For the first time in a very long time, House felt the need to do something nice for Wilson just because he wanted to. There was no ulterior motive here. He wasn't trying to earn brownie points from Wilson.

Helping him in with the ice cream seemed on the surface like a very small step but the full significance of this began to hit Wilson when he stepped through the door and felt the welcoming warmth of the roaring fire. Wilson looked into House's eyes and saw something in them that he had rarely seen in House. The man who had forgotten what it was like not to be in pain was not in pain. Even more, he was happy. For the first time since he was a little child, House knew the satisfaction that comes from doing something nice for someone else, no matter how small the favor might be, just because he wanted to. He didn't expect anything in return. Wilson didn't look or act surprised. The look in Wilson's eyes was one of sincere appreciation, accompanied by a soft "thank you". House felt like a million bucks.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N – the mention of a physician throwing a patient chart across the room refers to something that actually happened in front of me when I was with a patient. I'm a nurse. The doctor wasn't even reacting to anything I said or did; he was reacting to something else. It's still something that will stand out in my mind for a long time to come. Chapter 9 contains a lot more conversation between House and Wilson, and his attorney Sam Bell makes another appearance. Chapter 9 should be posted in a few days and contains a real shocker, or at least I hope it comes across that way. Meanwhile, enjoy chapter 8!**

The fire crackled and roared while both men cracked each other up with dirty jokes and gossip about Cuddy and Cameron and Wilson's ex-wives. Anybody who wasn't in that room currently was subject to gossip and they picked on everyone.

"Remember that chick Chase picked up when I told him to hire someone? That stupid blonde psych resident? Thank God she told him she didn't sleep with people she worked with. I'd have fired her myself. Hell she was fun while she lasted, though. She really did look like Chase's mommy."

"Yeah. Hey, have you heard from Masters? Has she called you?" Wilson asked, still laughing at the memory of Chase's failed new hire.

"No. Considering I humiliated her every chance I got and fired her four or five times, I can't imagine why she would call me. I can imagine why she would dream about me, though."

"I saw her a few days ago. I had a patient who needed a lung transplant and the surgeon was her new boss. I thought she was going to faint when she saw me. They rounded on my patient. House, it was hysterical. You know how all the surgical residents stand in front and the interns have to stand behind them? They made her stand all the way in the back where she couldn't see anything. She was standing on her tip toes clutching her stupid clipboard and nobody would let her up front. All they were doing was rounding on my patient and we were still in the patient room. Her surgery was scheduled for the next day. Masters looked so forlorn in the back of the room and it was hysterical. I found out later they told her about the dumb doughnuts too. Some resident brought in a bunch of doughnuts on Masters' first day and she must have brought in a bunch of her paper airplanes too. When they all met bright and early in the surgery lounge before rounds on her first day, the place was decorated with a bunch of paper airplanes. Masters must have done it before anyone else walked in. I heard they laughed their asses off and started having paper airplane races. I heard someone said it looked like a kindergarten classroom. The residents ripped 'em down and started throwing them all over the place. They ate up all the doughnuts too and the interns didn't get any. I heard she ran crying from the room. I heard her new boss had to go out and threaten her to either stop crying and come back in or else go home and lose her internship."

Both men were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace with their backs to the couch. House was laughing so hard he couldn't sit up straight.

"I wonder if he knows how many times I fired her. I wonder if he knows the only reason I tried to keep her on my team was to screw with her."

"House, I think the surgical residents are doing the same thing. I think the residents are having a blast screwing with her. From what I've heard so far, she hasn't contributed much of anything to the surgical cases she's been assigned, but I think that's because her boss only lets interns talk when they're asked to say something. You want your fellows to challenge you. You want your fellows to stand up to you and have the guts to back up their opinion. I'd forgotten she was still a med student when you had her. Now she's an intern and nobody wants to hear from her. Remember what internship was like? In my internship, all they wanted me to do was shut up, study, follow the rules and do what I was told. I guess not much has changed."

"Yeah. I had a hell of a time in my internship. I couldn't shut up, and nobody wanted to hear from me but I didn't give a damn. Even back then I spoke my mind when I knew I was right. I couldn't have lived with myself if I didn't. In fact, looking back on it, I wish I'd stuck to my guns even more than I did. I'd already been kicked out of one med school, and I didn't mind having to find another internship. I guess someone didn't mind my 'tude because I actually got through my internship without getting booted out on my ass."

"Remember working 3 days straight for peanuts and getting no sleep whatsoever? Every time I would lie down in the call room someone would page me for something. The nurses were told to page interns first before trying to page residents or fellows or attendings."

"Yeah. I remember I had just finished writing something in a patient's chart and I was so tired I couldn't keep my eyes open. I was getting up to go lie down in the call room. Some nurse paged me about an acetaminophen dose for a patient. I threw the chart I'd been working on across the room. Thank god the chart didn't break and I was in a little room all by myself," House mused.

House patted his stomach and yawned. The fire was slowly dying and Wilson was tired too. House thought it was so nice sitting there next to someone who just wanted to be there with him and didn't have an ulterior motive; didn't expect anything out of him. He wasn't high. He was happy. And he wasn't in pain either. He just wanted to let his head fall back against the couch, or better yet, lay his head on Wilson's shoulder and drift off to sleep. He didn't want this night to end.

Wilson, though, wasn't about to spend the night sitting or lying on the floor in front of the fire. Nice as that would be, his back needed a bed, and soon.

House's head had already bumped Wilson's shoulder several times. House was falling asleep. "Uh uh. Not here. Come on, let's get up. I need the bed. I'm guessing you do too," Wilson said, poking House in the stomach.

Wilson offered House a hand in getting up, which of course House did not accept. Watching his best friend get up, Wilson was struck by how much easier the process seemed to be for House. Normally after getting up from a seated position on the floor, like when he and Nora were sitting on the floor of Wilson's loft eating Chinese that one time, House would have to spend the next few minutes rubbing the kinks out of his leg before he could get moving. Wilson noticed for the first time tonight that House's movements were a little more fluid and he was ready to walk immediately upon rising to his feet. He didn't have to work the kinks out of his leg.

"What, my fly open or something?" House said, wondering why Wilson was staring at him.

"House, I'm sorry for criticizing you the first time you went on Methadone."

"You thought I was on heroin. That's why you were worried about me. Well, that and the fact that I quit breathing. Hell, you know how suspicious I am of my patients. I think everyone's on dope until someone else proves me wrong. I don't blame you for being worried about me. You were looking out for me. God knows I gave you plenty of reasons to think you had to do that. Don't apologize for that."

"Yeah, it is kind of my go-to position," Wilson said mid-yawn. "Let's get to bed." Wilson was moving like a 90 year old with a bad case of arthritis. He grabbed his back. "God, my back is cramping!"

From about four feet in front of Wilson, House laughed again. "Seriously, House, I can't move! It's not funny," Wilson grouched.

"Don't fall over. It's not like I can catch you," House said as he moved in behind his _what, friend? Lover? Significant other? Life partner? Are we becoming more than just friends? _ Thoughts of this nature were running through House's mind as he began what had to be the most sensual back rub James Wilson had ever had from anyone.

Standing there in the hallway, House slowly began a counterclockwise lower back massage. First with his right hand, he used his fingers to find the knots and then slowly began to knead Wilson's back counterclockwise in gradually increasing circles. Some of the knots began to loosen. Then he began the same movement with his left hand. Wilson moaned, "Oh god, that feels good. You better stop now. I won't be able to walk again in a minute."

House responded by moving his thumbs a little farther south. He began to slowly massage Wilson's tailbone with his thumbs, just a gentle light massage that felt heavenly. Obviously Wilson had a G spot there that he didn't realize because a few moments later, he wasn't sure he wanted House to see him from the front.

"Stop," Wilson moaned throatily.

"I'm not sure I want to," House whispered into Wilson's hair.

The slow, gentle back rub continued. Both men were still standing in the hallway. Wilson was surprised that House was able to stand in one position for this long. "Aren't you in pain?" Wilson asked incredulously.

"Endorphins," House growled.

"But we haven't done anything yet," Wilson whispered urgently.

"Psychosomatic."

"No such thing. I need to lie down even if you don't," Wilson said, reluctant to move away from House's tender touch even while his body dictated that they couldn't stand here forever.

The self-proclaimed cripple and the hobble began to make their way together down the hallway. As soon as the back rub stopped, Wilson began to double up in pain again. "Damn back!" he shouted. In the past, House would have let Wilson alone to deal with his bad back privately. Now, however, House was unable to hide his concern. He moved to Wilson's left side and shoved his cane into Wilson's right hand. "Here, you need the cane worse than I do. Let me hold on to your shoulder and we'll support each other. Just go slowly. Come on, you'll be fine. Trust me, I know pain. You'll be fine. That's it, slowly but surely," House encouraged Wilson as they moved slowly but surely down the hall towards the safety of the bed.

Wilson smiled when he saw the covers pulled back neatly on the bed, the lights off and a gentle glow coming from a small night light on Wilson's side of the bed. Ever the carefully observant one, Wilson scanned House's side of the bed for any evidence of the familiar Vicodin bottle on his night stand. The only medication bottle was a small bottle of extra doses of Methadone, and for the first time in a long time he actually believed House when House said he had not needed any extra doses.

Contrary to the rumors Wilson had heard for years, House was always neat and tidy. While he never cared much about pressing his clothes, House was always neatly dressed. Wilson had heard rumors in the hospital for years that House must be slovenly at home because it was widely believed that most bachelors were slovenly. He knew that wasn't true and he wished people would quit talking that way, because if there was one thing House was not, it was a slovenly housekeeper. House's apartment was always neat and tidy. He took particular pride in keeping his piano and his other instruments clean and dusted. House had hardwood floors and very few throw rugs except the one under his piano and one under his coffee table. He learned right after he came home from his first hospitalization that throw rugs do not go well with canes. Leaving things out of place also did not go very well with canes because it meant more time on his feet trying to find whatever he was looking for. Not to mention the fact that he was raised to be neat and tidy. Being in a military family meant frequent moves so it helped to keep things organized.

Looking around the bedroom, Wilson admired how neat and clean everything was. The night light on Wilson's side of the bed was a nice touch, too.

"Admiring my handiwork, are you?" House said from Wilson's left side.

"I just wish all those idiots at the hospital who think you're messy could see this."

"I don't care what people think," House replied, looking Wilson square in the eye.

"Yeah, I know you don't. I just wish people could see this side of you, that's all," Wilson replied softly.

"I thought you were tired. You want to stand here all night admiring everything or are you ready to lie down?"

"Yeah, I need to lie down." Wilson moved stiffly and slowly to the bed. Then he realized he still needed to undress. He really wasn't planning on doing that in front of House, and he needed to use the bathroom anyway. Wilson awkwardly got back up, got his night clothes out and went into the bathroom.

After a few minutes of silence, House called out, "You know, if you're just getting dressed for bed you can do that out here. I got one bathroom and two people who want to use it. Hurry up."

Then he heard the toilet flush. Wilson reappeared in his night clothes. "I had something else to do in there too! Haven't you ever heard of taking turns?"

Wordlessly, House took his turn in the bathroom. He was still unused to closing the bathroom door behind him, but he was also still so ashamed of having to wear the ankle monitor that he didn't want Wilson seeing any more of it than he had to. House closed the door.

House emerged from the bathroom. Wilson was sitting up in bed with the lamp on reading a book.

"Can we kill the lights? I'm tired," House complained. He actually was not tired as much as he was reluctant to let Wilson see the ankle monitor. House had long pajama pants and a soft tee shirt on.

"Yeah, let's sack out."

A few minutes after the lights were off, Wilson said softly to House, "I'm not ashamed of your scar. I'd think after all this time you wouldn't be either."

House flipped around and stared at him. "I'm not used to being on public display. The hookers see my ugly scar because it's part of what they're paid to do. But the scar isn't the problem. The scar isn't what I most want to hide."

Wilson said nothing. He thought he knew where this was heading, but wanted to give House the opportunity to elaborate.

"I hate that every time something bad happens to me I feel like I'm dragging you down with me. I hate that you had to help me get out of jail. And as much as I hate looking at this damn thing every minute," House said, pointing to his ankle monitor, "I hate even more that you have to look at it too. It's just a constant visual reminder of how low I am now and that I dragged you down again too."

Wilson took him by one shoulder and looked him square in the eye. House could not bear to maintain eye contact with Wilson.

"House, look at me."

He did for a moment, then he looked at the covers, the wall, his bureau, the ceiling, and then Wilson took him by the shoulder again.

"Look at me, dumb ass."

"Well as long as you don't call me a dumb ass," House returned with a small smile and a little bit more eye contact.

"Listen here, dumb ass. And yeah, I'm gonna keep calling you a dumb ass until you get this through your thick skull. I said it before and I'll say it again and again until you understand. I'm with you because I want to be. You didn't 'drag' me anywhere. For all your animal magnetism, you don't have nearly enough to actually drag me anywhere I don't already want to be. I could leave right now if I wanted to. I'm not going anywhere because this is exactly where I want to be. I could care less about the ankle monitor other than the fact that I'm glad you finally decided to leave it alone and quit picking at it. I could care less about the scar or any other reason you might try to pull out of the air that you think would make me think any less of you. I just want you. I don't care about the other stuff."

"The night Hanna died, Cuddy kissed my scar before we slept together. The way she kissed my scar made me shiver. I don't do vulnerable in case you haven't noticed. She said it didn't matter, that she loved me for me and she didn't want me to change. Then look what happened."

"Yeah, and she's not with you any more. The past is the past. I know you're going to carry that baggage around a long time. We have to help each other throw old worn out baggage away. I'm just as bad about carrying around rotted out baggage as you are," Wilson said tiredly. "Maybe that's why my back hurts so bad."

"Your back hurts from carrying me around on it all these years," House said softly. "That line from the song is not true. 'He ain't heavy, he's my brother'. It's not true. Other peoples' burdens are always heavy. Sooner or later the back's gonna break. I'm not going to be the straw that breaks your back. I don't want you carrying my worn out baggage for me any more."


	9. Chapter 9

House Arrest chapter 9

**A/N –I have done a little bit of legal research to make sure I have the legal and employment terms at least a little bit accurate, but don't use this as a legal primer. I'd like to thank Brighid45 for her fantastic advice on this chapter. If you're not reading Autumn Wine or any of her other stories, you really should. They're very well written and interesting. Also I expect this chapter to elicit strong reviews, both pro and con. All reviews are welcome and encouraged, since we all have opinions and should be free to express them. It's possible to disagree and still be nice about it (smiling).**

The men who'd said they were exhausted when they retired for the evening stayed up late into the night just talking.

This was something far more important and valuable to House than anything else they might have done. House had never had the kind of trust in anyone that would permit him to speak so introspectively. Everyone else that he knew thought of him as a wise ass, a smart guy who couldn't stand to get close to anyone else. The few months he was in a sexual relationship with Cuddy, that's really all it was; a sexual relationship. There were some good times and there were a few times when they told each other they loved each other, but the connection between the two of them was tenuous at best. They never talked openly and honestly about anything that mattered. They joked, they teased, they flirted, but they never talked seriously. Cuddy probably thought he didn't really care all that much. House did care. He just maintained that façade to protect him when the inevitable breakup occurred. When Cuddy broke up with him, the façade came crumbling down, but after the week of extravagance at the hotel Wilson could see the wall coming right back up again. Walls keep pain and despair out, but they also keep happiness out too.

Wilson found the crack in the façade, pried it open and dove inside. House wasn't sure how to react but he was absolutely certain this was something to be nurtured, not blown up.

Somewhere around two in the morning, the talk turned to more pressing, urgent matters. "I got a call from Sam Bell yesterday," House said.

"What'd he say?"

"My next hearing is coming up. She'll be there," House said, looking at Wilson and silently pleading with Wilson to please understand that he meant Cuddy. He didn't want to have to say her name.

Wilson wanted so badly to ask what they were going to decide at the next hearing, but he wasn't sure if that was something House could discuss without violating the attorney/client privilege. He remained silent, waiting to see what House would say.

"I pled not guilty to the original charge of aggravated assault with intent to cause great bodily harm. You already know that. I think I made a mistake."

Wilson was stunned into silence.

"Don't get me wrong. I didn't cause great bodily harm, and never intended to in the first place. If I could present a convincing case, I'd plead down to simple assault, but no judge or jury would ever believe me if I tried to plead down to anything less than what I was charged with. Let's face it. I did it, and I have to deal with whatever they dish out."

Wilson took a deep breath. From the look on House's face, he clearly expected some kind of response from Wilson. Wilson knew what he wanted to say; he just wasn't sure how to say it.

"I know you're going to need help facing her in court. You take care of whatever you need to take care of with your attorney. I don't need to be part of that unless you want me to. Let me take care of Cuddy. If she's there, she has a right to be, and I can run interference for you. Seriously. I'm not taking on any of your burdens. I won't actually say anything in court. Just my being there, sitting right behind you, will be enough to drive her nuts. I can't let you have all the fun!" Wilson said in an attempt at a little lighthearted humor.

"You're gonna need lessons from the master," House laughed softly. "I charge $300 an hour."

"I just mean I'll be there to run interference. I'm not going to completely destroy the woman, as much as I've dreamed of doing just exactly that. I would if I could but if I did, she'd take you and me both down the drain with her."

"Oh, by the way, you still have a job at PPTH," Wilson added.

"I'm not going back there," House said with finality. "You can't run interference for me all the time. I wish you didn't feel the need to do it at the hearing and trial if it goes that far. I don't want you running interference for me at PPTH. I can't work with her or around her. Obviously she'll stay. It's her baby; she should stay. I'm going to leave before she fires my ass."

"Well, as it turns out, crashing into someone's house is not grounds for termination. I checked with HR. She can't use that as grounds to fire you. Thirteen asked me when you were coming back. Your fellows need you," Wilson replied quietly.

"Wilson, I can't work for her. Hell, I can't even work in the same building with her."

"You're an adult and you have the right to decide where you want to work. Can I suggest something though? Actually, let me rephrase that. I'm going to suggest something whether you want me to or not. If I were you I would damn sure go back to work at PPTH, and the sooner the better," Wilson said firmly.

House looked at him incredulously.

"House, she doesn't own you. If you quit now, you're giving her power to make you quit. I would not give her one iota of power. You were never lacking in self-confidence at work before; why start now? You said you weren't trying to hurt her. I believe you. You did something incredibly stupid. We all do stupid stuff and you know how stupid I can be. How do you think I felt when they threw me in jail and the only thing I did was break a damn window? Nobody got hurt as a result of what I did and nobody got hurt as a result of what you did either. You're going to come out of this legal shit all the better for it, and I wouldn't let that bitch feel like she has the power to make you quit while you're in the process of paying the penalty."

"How can you talk like that? I may not have to go back there but you still have a job and a department to protect," House said.

"Well of course I won't call her a bitch to her face. Even I'm not that stupid. But that doesn't mean we have to put up with anything unreasonable from her. She's been treating you unreasonably for years, House."

Dumbfounded and temporarily speechless, House just stared at Wilson.

"Where is your job description? Did she ever give you a written job description?" Wilson asked, waiting for an answer. "Where is your contract? Did she have you sign an employment contract with PPTH?"

House looked away; he responded quietly and a little suspiciously. "When she interviewed me I'd already been fired by four other hospitals as you know. I needed a job and I accepted everything she offered right off the bat. I have a job description and I have a contract. My contract contains so many clauses pertaining to grounds for termination that I've lost count. Technically, she could fire me for breathing on her the wrong way. It's a wonder she hasn't. If she fired me, the burden of proof would not be on her to prove she had a reason to fire me. It would be on me to prove that she was wrong in doing so. Driving a car through her house may not be a reason for termination, but insubordination would be. The definition of insubordination is very vague. At this point, I'd have to be completely silent around her at work because I can't guarantee that anything that comes out of my mouth wouldn't be taken as insubordination."

"I thought you had tenure," Wilson said.

"I do, but my contract is about fifty pages long with all those clauses. My guess right now is that insubordination would weigh a lot heavier than tenure," House said resignedly.

"I'm assuming your contract says the same thing mine does, about appropriate and inappropriate contact between you and your supervisor."

House snapped, "So, what, you're saying I harassed her or something?"

"Well, I'm sure there are people who would argue in favor of that point, but that's not what I'm saying."

Now it was House's turn to be stunned into silence.

Treading carefully on what was sure to be rocky ground, Wilson proceeded.

"House, your boss slept with you."

"And I did the same with her. Numerous times."

"Think about it. She started the sexual relationship. You may have slept together, but she took your clothes off and she kissed your scar. She initiated the sexual contact. You told her no, and she proceeded anyway. It became consensual, but it didn't start out that way."

Silence descended in that bedroom. A few moments passed before Wilson said anything else, but it seemed like an eternity. Now House knew where this was going.

"That could be considered sexual harassment," Wilson said softly, looking House directly in the eye.

"I can't," House muttered. "I can't even THINK that. Not after all those years of flirting with her. Not after all the times we had sex after that. Wilson, I loved her, or at least I thought I did."

"I'm not suggesting that you do anything. I just think you ought to remember you have control over your situation at work. If the board of directors ever even had a suspicion that she sexually harassed you, they'd probably be required to investigate it. Most likely, she'd be out on her ass. I just think it would help to know that you have a lot more job security at PPTH than you think you do. If you go back to PPTH, my guess is she's going to leave you alone as much as she can. You know as well as I did that she micromanaged you almost to death. She doesn't do that with any of the other department heads. If she avoids you as much as she's avoiding me now, you should welcome the change."

"Wilson, I harassed her a hundred times worse, over the years, than she ever did me."

"Listen to me, numbskull. I'm not an attorney but I know plenty about harassment and all that shit that I had to deal with in all my divorce proceedings. SHE removed YOUR clothing. SHE kissed YOUR scar when you said no. Things got cloudy after that when you took her to your bed, but she initiated contact after you said no and that is sexual harassment."

"But I lifted my arms up! I let her take my shirt off!" House said.

"Yeah, dummy, when you thought she was just examining and cleaning your shoulder wound!"

"And I let her take my pants off," House said dismally. "I let her do that."

"And a garage fell on you. You thought she was checking your leg to make sure you weren't hurt any more seriously. You were vulnerable and she took advantage of you. She took your clothes off. If you'd wanted your clothes removed to have sex you would have done that yourself in two seconds flat. She kissed your scar when you said no and that's sexual harassment. House, I'm not saying you should accuse her of anything. What I'm suggesting is every time you see her in the hallway at PPTH, you need to keep in the back of your mind that you have a lot more power over her than you think you do. You have a lot more job security than you think you do, too. Walk by her in the hallway at PPTH and just keep on going with your head held high."

"That's a little difficult to do given the fact that if I said 'hi' to her with the wrong attitude, she has grounds to fire me for insubordination."

"Where is the old House bravado? I've NEVER seen you walk on eggshells around ANYONE. Would you get over this already? You don't have to tiptoe around her, afraid for your job security. She hired you knowing what an ass you were. That's probably why she put all those clauses in your contract. If I were you the next thing I'd do is have your attorney review that contract. My guess is those clauses were temporary and expired a long time ago. House, she hired you BECAUSE you're a maverick who's not afraid to stretch boundaries. She can't fire you now for the same attitude that she hired you for in the first place, and tolerated all these years. Obviously you can't go back to work pretending that nothing happened. Take time off and get your mojo back. Then do your job, keep getting those epiphanies, and stay out of her office."

"I'm not sure I can stay out of her office. She used to call me into her office for every God-forsaken thing," House replied. He understood Wilson's wisdom; he just wasn't sure how to apply it practically.

"No, you found every God-forsaken excuse to go into her office including breaking into it. Just stay out of her office. Yes, you can do clinic duty without barging in through her office doors. Believe me, she's going to go out of her way to avoid having to see you. Hell, she's even hiding from me now. My guess is she's going to hide in that damn office all day once you go back to work. If she hides in the office and you stay out of it, you're fine."

"Yeah, and if I do have to set foot in that office it'll be with my attorney in tow."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N – this chapter is still all House and Wilson at home. Next chapter gets even more interesting with House returning to work. Enjoy!**

House sniggered softly. Wilson hadn't said anything particularly funny, but the whole idea of having someone in his life who really enjoyed his company and with whom he could completely relax was such a joy that he couldn't hide his pleasure. Actually, what he really wanted to do was bust out laughing, but there had been so little in his personal life to laugh at in the last fifteen years or so that he'd become ill at ease with outright laughter. To fill the void, he'd become a master at playing tricks on his employees and cracking jokes at work. But there was nothing as satisfying as having someone he loved at home with whom he could just cut loose and laugh.

"What's so funny?" Wilson asked with a smile.

"Nothing. I need you around more often!"

"I intend to be around permanently," Wilson replied.

It was already almost four am and they'd been up all night talking. House bid him goodnight, set his alarm for nine am, flipped the lamp off and rolled over, trying to get some sleep. He was never one to go in to work early unless absolutely necessary, and had no intention of getting up before nine am.

The bottle on his nightstand containing his extra doses of Methadone for breakthrough pain was still unopened.

Wilson closed his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to go to sleep. It wasn't that he wasn't tired. He was physically exhausted and mentally wound up tighter than a spring in a brand new bed. The mind often works overtime when one is over tired. He had a lot to think about.

He wanted House back in his loft. Technically, it was "his" loft; but Wilson never intended to live there without House. When he bought it, he tried to be altruistic about it and told himself that he only bought it for House. Looking back now, though, on everything that transpired since then, Wilson had to admit to himself that that wasn't the only reason he bought it. Wilson bought that condo because as long as he had a spare bedroom and bathroom, he would always hold out hope that _someone_ else would be there to occupy it. In the beginning, that someone was House. He convinced himself that he was being altruistic about the purchase because House was still recovering from his hospitalization at Mayfield and needed to live with someone else. They were living together in Amber's old apartment and needed more space. But then Sam came back into his life. Wilson had always wanted, but rarely got, comfort AND safety in a relationship. With House, he had the comfort born of familiarity but at the time there was no safety. With Sam, he didn't have as much familiarity simply because they'd been apart for so long, but he had the safety of knowing what screwed up their relationship before so that they wouldn't repeat the same mistakes. Wilson knew now that kicking House out of their home was a mistake. It was a mistake to replace House with Sam. Wilson tried to deny at the time that he was replacing House with Sam, but he knew now that's exactly what he did and he knew now how much it hurt House. For as much as House claimed to like living alone, nobody really _likes_ living alone. Wilson knew that all too well.

Wilson wanted so badly to apologize to House for the biggest mistake he'd made in a long time. House wasn't just a replacement, a fill-in until the next Mrs. Wilson came along. He tried to say that in that hotel bar the last time House began to self-destruct again, but it came out wrong. It came out sounding like he wanted House to move back in with him because he was House's savior.

Wilson had jumped into a lot of relationships that ended up being sad mistakes. This one was the only relationship he hadn't jumped into, but had been allowed to mature naturally over many years. Clearly they had stood the test of time as friends, and clearly they both wanted it to become more than just friendship.

One thing both men had learned the hard way was that sex can often be a nail in the coffin of a relationship. That's all House and Cuddy really ever had, and House had said often enough that he knew that relationship was doomed from the start even though he did love her. Looking back on everything that happened last year, Wilson began to see that House was probably using Cuddy simply to avoid being alone. There appeared to be little more to that relationship than just the sex and the comfort for House of knowing that he didn't have to sleep alone. Sometimes Wilson felt like that was all he had done with his wives, too.

Wilson really relished that conversation they had just had. It was refreshing; it was cathartic. He began to wonder if maybe that's what had been missing from his marriages, but then he realized that things happen for a reason and he would probably be a lot better off not worrying about the past. When he was a child, his mother had often said "Don't worry about that water that's already under the bridge. It's gone. You can't get it back again. Clean the trash out of the water in front of you and you'll be fine." Wasn't House the one who just said Wilson needed to 'move on'?

Yeah, 'move on.' Wilson had just spouted off to House that House was emotionally stuck and unable to move on. Maybe that wasn't really as true as Wilson originally thought. Wilson found himself thinking about all the difficulties in life House had had to deal with. As emotionally unstable and, frankly, crazy as House's behaviors often were, he'd dealt with some very challenging obstacles in his life. For one, a domineering stepfather who expected perfection and tolerated nothing less. Having to live his entire life without hearing the truth about his biological father from his mother. He'd been lied to his entire life about that, since it was a lie of omission. House had to confirm his suspicion with a post-mortem paternity test obtained from an illicit sample of the man's earlobe because his own mother wasn't honest with him as a child. Oh, and then there was having his thigh muscle cut out not only against his wishes but while he was under a medically induced coma and unable to do anything to prevent it.

Everybody has problems and everybody has their own ways of dealing with their problems. Wilson was beginning to realize that he could love someone deeply without expecting something in return that the other person might not be able to give. He could love House for who he was, not for who he wanted House to be. Sex would be wonderful, a dream even, but not if House wasn't ready and not if it would mean the death of this little seedling. After all, good things come to those who wait.

Wilson looked with happiness and pride over at House. It was a profound happiness that Wilson hadn't felt in a long, long time. Wilson knew now that with work, he would find the safety in this relationship that seemed to be missing before. It was there; it just needed work and nurturing.

"You gonna keep admiring me or are you gonna go to sleep? SOME of us have to work in the morning!" House groused.

"'Night, knucklehead," Wilson said as he rolled over in the darkness, facing away from House. Yes, indeed. Good things come to those who wait.

Next morning House awoke to an otherwise empty bedroom. Wilson was pottering about in the kitchen and the heavenly scent of lightly browned waffles, hot syrup and melted butter drifted in to the bedroom.

House began the ritual necessary to rise from his bed. Years ago he learned that even if he wasn't hurting in bed, he needed to follow the same ritual if he didn't want to cramp immediately after standing up. Regardless of how full his bladder was, he needed to follow the same ritual. On the rare occasions that he didn't follow the routine, he would cramp so badly upon standing up that he wouldn't always have time to make it to the bathroom. Rule number twenty in his life was to always, always, ALWAYS do the warm up routine before rising from bed in the morning.

The routine was as follows:

Range of motion exercises on his right foot and ankle, to get the blood flowing.

Using his hand to support his thigh, he bent his knee four or five times or as much as it took to work the stiffness out.

Again using his hand to support his thigh and help with the motion, he rotated his hip this way and that, and repeated that motion until the stiffness had been worked out of his hip.

Working up gently and methodically from the foot to the knee to the hip, he was usually able to work the kinks out and get blood flowing to his leg well enough to prevent major cramps when he rose from bed in the morning. It took time, but in the long run it was well worth it.

When he woke up, before he started doing anything to his leg, House felt the very pleasant sensation of a morning woody. When he was on Vicodin, he hadn't had a woody spontaneously in a long, long time. Narcotics tend to have that nasty little side effect. Methadone is a narcotic too but it's longer acting and more suitable for long term use than Vicodin is. He was taking less Methadone than he expected and it was wonderful, invigorating even, to feel his libido return naturally because of not being so saturated in opiates. He'd always teased, flirted, made horribly sexist remarks and jokes, and talked all kinds of nasty stuff to the hookers he hired, but very rarely did any of it consummate in actual sexual intercourse because the Vicodin usually made him impotent. Sometimes, not even the Viagra could counteract that particular nasty side effect. He would never admit it to anyone and never in a million years wanted anyone to suspect it, which was why his behavior was so outrageously flirtatious and sexist. It was a mask, attempting to preserve what little self esteem he had left and hide the real problem. Getting a woody spontaneously, without the aid of Viagra, was an absolutely heavenly reminder that maybe he hadn't completely lost his macho mojo.

House took a few moments, actually more than a few moments, to enjoy his woody and then finish it off.

While he was enjoying the post-orgasm endorphin high, he took his morning Methadone maintenance dose and went through his range of motion routine. Soon enough, he was quite ready to get up and dig into those damn waffles that were driving him crazy.

Appearing in the kitchen resplendent in his pajama pants, holey tee shirt and a classic bed head, House pretended to complain. "So, what, no pancakes? I told you I wanted pancakes!"

Looking up from his work by the stove, Wilson took a few minutes to absorb the sight. Wilson rarely set foot outside the bedroom in the morning without his daytime clothes on whether or not there was anyone else in the house with him. Living alone seemed to have affected each man differently. Wilson didn't change his habits when a roommate moved out. Even when he was alone, he still didn't want to emerge from the bedroom in the morning not properly dressed to start the day. Up until now, he'd thought of the people he lived with as just that; roommates. The wives may have started out as beloved spouses but by the time the marriages had run their course, the wives were little more than roommates. Things were different now with House. He no longer thought of House as a roommate. Roommates come and go. Partners stay for life.

House's behavior as a result of living alone also didn't seem to change with Wilson in his life. Part of it was the fact that he didn't feel the need to change the way he dressed around the house just to please someone else. Part of it was also the fact that it was more comfortable to wear soft, thin, well-worn clothing at home. When pain is a 24 hour a day presence, things that provide comfort are of prime importance. The way House saw it, soft, old thin clothing was much more comfortable around the house than staying in street clothes, and comfort was worth giving up some vanity even when there were other people in his home.

"Yeah, keep complaining about not getting pancakes. I'll eat all the waffles and you'll get nothing," Wilson retorted playfully.

"Gimme," House cried and limped as fast as he could to the table.

Sitting at his table, House was again pleasantly surprised by the feeling that was washing over him right about now. It had been so long since House experienced any kind of prolonged, sincere happiness that he really wasn't too sure what this feeling was. He knew it made him feel warm and good. House's appearance this morning was deliberately more tousled than usual. It was a test to see how Wilson would react. In House's mind, they couldn't live together if they couldn't tolerate seeing each other in ratty old clothes and all messed up. Wilson didn't say anything about House's attire, his bed head or the fact that his untrimmed beard was beginning to resemble Grizzly Adams. Wilson accepted House for who he was. The tousled, unkempt appearance didn't apparently matter one iota.

It was nice; no, a more appropriate word would be _comforting_, seeing Wilson in the kitchen with him. So many times House ate alone. He rarely even bothered eating at his kitchen table since there was never anyone there to enjoy it with him. He had long since fallen into the habit of eating take out in front of his TV in the living room or else going out to eat with Wilson. It's difficult enough to live alone and eating alone at home is even more depressing. House had a very well stocked kitchen. He enjoyed cooking, and he was good at it; but he didn't enjoy cooking for one and he especially didn't enjoy cleaning up the mess afterward. He felt like the joy of cooking was outweighed by the sadness over the fact that there was rarely anyone else there to enjoy it with him. So the expensive cookware and cutlery usually saw very little service.

With Wilson there, it felt like a permanent ray of sunshine lit up his previously gloomy and lonely domicile. He could break out the expensive pots and pans and create culinary delights for both of them to enjoy.

Meanwhile, though, House was busy with the task at hand of digging into Wilson's delicious vanilla and cinnamon waffles. That little bit of fresh vanilla bean and freshly ground cinnamon added to the batter before pouring into the waffle iron made all the difference. Freshly ground cinnamon is always tastier than stuff that may have been ground a year ago. And people who have never tasted a fresh vanilla bean are missing the culinary equivalent of the Holy Grail. Man, those waffles were addicting. They were even more addicting than Wilson's famous almond pancakes.

As he was inhaling his waffles, House looked up at Wilson and realized that there actually was one thing he would need to change quickly if he and Wilson were going to cement this relationship. House remembered his manners. Living alone tends to make one forget one's manners since there's nobody else there to care about farting, belching, or an equally impolite thing to do in the company of other people; eating before the other person sits down at the table.

House wiped his face with his napkin and made a point to stop eating until Wilson sat down and started on his food.

"Sorry about that. Not used to company at the kitchen table," House said. "I would say these are heavenly, but a more accurate adjective would be 'ungodly good'. Ha! Get it? Ungodly. And good, too. That's the highest superlative this atheist can come up with."

"Why did you stop eating? Are they cold?" Wilson asked, perplexed about why the inhaling of waffle suddenly stopped.

"They're fine. I forgot my manners. Sorry about that," House said with a hint of a smile.

"Manners? What? Oh, you mean that…" Wilson motioned to House's empty plate and then to his own as yet untouched plate. "The fact that you inhaled yours before I had a chance to sit down and enjoy mine is a compliment." Wilson said that with a stone cold, completely expressionless poker face.

House returned his stare. The two men engaged in a stare-down until both broke up, snorting with laughter. "Seriously, House. Don't change for me. It's a compliment that you like my food that much."

"It helps to have someone to enjoy it with," House added.


	11. Chapter 11

With a belly full of the best waffles he'd ever eaten, and an engaging discussion over breakfast, House felt as ready as he'd ever be to return to work.

He was planning half a day at work today because the other half of the day would be spent with his attorney. Things were about to heat up dramatically in the legal department. House wasn't sure he was ready for things to heat up yet, but with more hearings and potentially a trial coming up, he knew all along that they would.

The only thing worse than having to face Cuddy in a courtroom would be having to face her at work on his first day back.

He'd have to cross that hurdle sooner or later. Might as well be today. Maybe Wilson was right and she'd hide out in her office. Even if she did that, though, and he hid in his office, it would only give him a temporary reprieve. As his supervisor, sooner or later he was going to have to face her at work. At work, unaccompanied by attorneys. Very dangerous ground, indeed. An argument could be made that they were both adults and both professionals and should be able to deal with each other professionally without letting their personal lives get in the way. On the other hand, that argument had been made many times before. _Yeah, right, look where that got us._

A somewhat more minor concern was having to face his fellows at work. He knew they knew he'd been arrested. Since his stunt was covered by all the local news broadcasters, anyone who watched the news knew what had happened and that he'd been arrested. Nobody else should know anything else about it other than that, unless Cuddy or Wilson had told them. He knew Wilson wouldn't say anything. That meant if his fellows knew any more about it than that, Cuddy would have been the gossip source. Although House didn't want his fellows knowing anything about his personal business, if they did, then the one saving grace about that would be that he'd have some good ammunition to use in his defense. Nobody had any right to know anything about his legal problems that he didn't tell them himself. Gossip like that might even be enough to get his case thrown out of court.

All of this meant that his fellows should not know that he was on house arrest. He had no intention of telling them, either. House found out soon after he was released from jail that his ankle monitor not only had a GPS transponder in it, but a transponder unit had also been installed on his home phone and his work phone. The transponder units attached to his phones communicated with his ankle monitor as a backup means to confirm he was where he was supposed to be. The third place he was allowed to be, the Mercer County Pain Clinic, required him to call the monitor phone ahead of time. Failure of the GPS locator or failure of the transponders attached to his phones were two of the many causes that would trigger a visit from the police to re-arrest him. House wasn't sure what the range was on the transponder installed on his work phone, but he guessed it was probably about 50 or 100 feet; which led to a further deduction that once he was at work, he really couldn't go anywhere besides his inner or outer office. That was just fine and dandy with him.

Since House had no intention of alerting his fellows to the fact that he was on house arrest and wearing an ankle monitor, he took extra time at home to gear up for the day. First step was to go back to wearing knee high socks, and pull them up over his monitor. In the unlikely event that his pant leg might ride up on his leg, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to see the ankle monitor. Knee high socks would hide it nicely. Next step was to call the monitor number and confirm the range of the transponders at home and at work. House normally flaunted his rule breaking to the point where there might as well not be any rules, but in this case, rule breaking would bring all kinds of police raining down on him at PPTH; attention that he didn't need or want. All he wanted to do was go to work and hide in his office; normal behavior for him that would not raise any suspicions or start any gossip.

The next step was to check his coat pockets for any leftover Vicodin. Contrary to what he was sure a lot of people thought, House never wanted to be on the Vicodin in the first place and now that he was off of it, he never wanted to see another one of those white devils again. He'd been living behind closed doors and locked windows for years with his pain that was not adequately managed, and the nasty side effects that the Vicodin caused. Doors were still locked to him but with a properly managed Methadone protocol, his pain was finally well managed, and a small window had opened up. The side effects from the prolonged Vicodin use (like impotence, constipation, dulled appetite, tinnitus, etc… the list was long) were finally going away. He wasn't so sure how strong his resolve would be if he were to find a stray Vicodin tablet hiding in one of his pockets, or shoes, or in any of the myriad places he'd ever kept it before. He meticulously turned all of his shirt and coat and pant pockets inside out searching for stray pills. He also searched his shoes. He went so far as to pull the laces out and examine each shoe with a flashlight. Slowly but surely, a few errant pills dropped out. One dropped out of one of his shoes and a few popped out from pockets in suit coats he hadn't worn in awhile. House assembled the stray pills in a little pile on his bed covers and called Wilson in to the bedroom.

"Hey, we need to go to work! What the hell is that? I thought I got rid of all the evil little devils," Wilson commented with a narrow look at the evidence on the bed.

"Relax. I want a witness. I found these in my coat pockets and shoes. I don't want them. I want you to witness me flush them down the toilet."

Wilson exhaled; a huge sigh of relief. "Good. Hurry up. We are going to be late for work." Wilson watched while House rose to a standing position; he couldn't help but notice how much more agile and nimble House was. The limp was still as pronounced as ever but the painful grimaces, the grabbing of his leg, the hesitation before beginning to walk, all of that was gone. Wilson did as he was requested and witnessed House flush the stray pills down the toilet. For his part, House did one more thing both for his own necessity and to top off the whole "making things look normal" routine. He put his vial of extra Methadone in his pocket. This was the vial of smaller doses to take in case he had any breakthrough pain. He didn't anticipate he would need them, but there was a double benefit here. If he needed them they'd be handy, plus, everyone at work was used to seeing him with a vial of pills in his pocket. He could rattle the vial around and even pretend to pop a pill once in awhile. Nobody would be any the wiser that he hadn't actually taken a pill, and this was normal behavior for him anyway that nobody would question. Seeing House without a pill vial, however, would raise all kinds of antennae. So into his pocket went the heretofore unopened vial of extra Methadone doses.

On their way out the door, House grabbed his backpack. Wilson noticed it was a lot more stuffed than usual. "What, are you bringing new toys to work?"

"Attorney stuff. I have to meet with Sam this afternoon."

Wilson really wanted to know what the "attorney stuff" was, but he didn't have a need to know and had no intention of asking. House made a quick call to the monitor phone to alert them that he was on the way to work. Once safely ensconced in the passenger seat of Wilson's Volvo, House began to stare intently at Wilson. He didn't say anything; just stared.

Wilson, trying very hard to keep his attention on the road, nevertheless found House's stare very disturbing. He guessed that the stare was an attempt to goad him into asking House what was in his backpack.

After a mile or so, during which House never let up the incessant staring, Wilson chanced a quick peek at House and saw him grinning. Returning his attention to the road, Wilson blurted, "Ok, I give up. I wasn't going to ask since you rightly want to keep the details of your legal problems to yourself, but you seem to want me to ask what's in the damn bag. What's in the damn bag?"

"Every shred of my own personal employment-related paperwork I ever signed at PPTH. Since I can't leave my office, I'll have time to go through all this shit again. This time I'll actually pay attention to all the fine print. I'm just glad I saved all this crap. Never thought I'd have any use for it other than kindling for the fireplace or making really juicy spitballs, but here it is."

"You think it's going to help you?"

"If Cuddy tries to get the board to revoke my tenure, yes. If I need it to verify good performance on the job, yes."

After a few moments of silence, Wilson asked, "Are you going to tell your fellows you're on house arrest?"

"Mood killer," House muttered. "They're going to find out sooner or later. I'm trying to put off the inevitable. I'll tell them, but not yet. Since I apparently can't leave my office, well, hell, that's no different than normal so it won't raise any suspicions. Sooner or later Foreman will ask why I'm not doing any clinic hours, but he won't ask me; he'll go right to Cuddy about that. Cuddy can't tell him I'm tethered to my office by this damn thing. If she does, I'll know right away who told him. They'll see the transponder in my office but they'll never ask me about it. I got plenty of lies lined up in case they do, though."

"Did you think about food?" Wilson asked.

"What an idiotic question! Of course. I do all the time. I think about whose food I'm going to steal, in particular." House looked at Wilson like he had three heads.

"Don't look at me like that. Since you always sit with me in the cafeteria and steal my food, don't you think your fellows are going to ask why you're eating your own food in your office all the time? Oh and by the way, did you bring anything to eat?"

"I came prepared," House smiled, patting a small insulated lunch container he'd stuffed in his backpack. "Extra waffles a la Wilson."

"What are you going to do when they ask why you're not off somewhere stealing someone else's, or my, food?"

"They wouldn't believe anything I said anyway, so my money's on the option that they won't ask."

"You should think about what you're going to say. Sooner or later they will ask, and you know they're going to find out the truth no matter what you say or don't say. Better to find out directly from you than by using what you taught them so well; their skill at deductive reasoning."

They had arrived at PPTH. Wilson offered to drop House off at the entrance, but House wasn't ready to face the hordes by himself. It was probably irrational, but he imagined that employees would just be lined up on both sides of the doorway waiting to grill him. The rational side of his mind told him that he'd pissed off enough employees over the years that most of them wanted nothing to do with him. Realistically, his fear of having to walk the gauntlet of disapproving stares at work was probably groundless because few people cared enough to do that. As hard as he tried to tamp it down, the irrational fear was bubbling to the surface anyway. He wanted Wilson's company walking into that god-forsaken place today.

House elected to stay in the car while Wilson parked in his usual space. The walk from Wilson's parking place was a stretch but House's pain was so well managed on the Methadone that he thought he could manage it today. He needed that small success, minor as it was, to bolster his self-confidence today. House's final comment to Wilson before both men exited the car was, "I know they have to find out sooner rather than later. They'll find out directly from me. I'm just not ready to tell them yet. Let it go, Wilson. I got enough to deal with today."

"All right. Hey, I'll see you at lunchtime, then. Need a ride to your attorney's office?"

"No," House replied. Wilson was having a hard time getting used to a slightly less needy House, the one who didn't mooch rides off him all the time. He couldn't help doing a double take. "Seriously. I think he's going to have to come out to the house. Thanks for the ride in this morning," House said as they both got on the elevator. Much to House's relief, although they passed many familiar faces in the lobby, nobody even gave him a second look.

He arrived at his outer office. House had to consider every move he made and whether or not it would be considered uncharacteristic enough to draw unwanted attention. Uncharacteristic moves at work were bound to raise suspicions that he didn't want to have to deal with right now. It was a minor detail, but normally he walked in through the outer office so he could spy on what his fellows were doing before he dumped his backpack in his inner office. Today he wanted to avoid that outer office and his fellows, sneak into his inner office, close the blinds and lock the doors, but he couldn't do that or it would raise suspicions. Minor detail, yes, but he had to keep up appearances. So he did like he always did. He limped in through the outer office door, nodded a curt, wordless hello to Chase, Taub, Foreman and Thirteen, wordlessly threw his backpack in his inner office, took his suit coat off, hung it neatly on his office chair just like normal, sat down, and said, "Glad Masters is really gone. What've we got?"

Nothing out of the ordinary. No reason for his fellows to be suspicious about anything; at least not yet.

Files were sitting in front of all four fellows, but they were all different cases, and the fellows couldn't decide which cases they wanted. House rubbed his hands together and hid his excitement about having something interesting to do. He loved it when his fellows had more cases than they knew what to do with, especially since one of his biggest unspoken fears was that Cuddy would quit sending him cases and convince other doctors to follow suit. Fortunately Cuddy wasn't the only person referring cases to their department. Many other doctors referred cases to the PPTH Department of Diagnostics. It wouldn't have mattered one iota if Cuddy had completely stopped sending them _any_ cases, as long as they kept receiving this same mountain of referrals from other physicians. This was promising.

"Renal failure after taking too much antacid," Taub called out.

"Boring. Liver failure and possible acetaminophen overdose," Thirteen said.

"No. Come on, guys. Those ARE diagnoses. Guy needs a liver transplant or a coffin. In case you haven't realized it yet, we specialize in cases that HAVEN'T been diagnosed yet," House said.

"Five year old kid suddenly started sprouting hair like a werewolf. Kid's never been to a pediatrician. Mom took him to a holistic practitioner and a faith healer and the hair got worse," Chase said. All conversation in the room stopped. Everyone locked eyes with House, whose only comment was, "Who referred him to us?"

"Why? Like you're gonna turn him down if Mommy just brought him in here on her own?"

"No. Who referred him to us?" House asked, firmly staring Chase down.

Swallowing hard, Chase answered. House was never predictable, but surely a five year old kid sprouting hair like a carpet, especially one who had never been to a pediatrician but had been to a faith healer, would light House's fire. He didn't want House to say no, but there was a distinct possibility that he might do just that after Chase answered the question.

"Cuddy."

Flashing a quick smile, House quickly clamped down on the smile before anyone could question its authenticity.

"Go tell Mommy to take a curry comb to Hairy Kid then. We'll take him."


	12. Chapter 12

With a cool new case, especially one referred by Cuddy, House had cleared several major obstacles. One, referrals hadn't dried up; two, his fellows acted completely normal; and three, he could handle a referral from Cuddy without falling apart.

House studied his fellows intently the half hour or so they were together this morning. Truly nobody acted out of the ordinary. Now that all of his fellows had left the office, beginning to work the case, House retreated back to his inner office; his inner sanctum. He could finally close the blinds and lock the doors and nobody would care.

Foreman was his usual cocky, smug, arrogant self. He was bossy and trying to order Chase, Taub and Thirteen around without actually saying anything. Foreman's body language said everything he needed or, apparently, intended to say that morning. Foreman had a way of looking at people that made some people think he could read them pretty well. But as Cuddy had said years before, he was "House light." He was nowhere near as proficient at understanding people as House was. He liked to make people think he could read them without actually being able to do so. He thought that was part of what made him good boss material even though, as yet, he wasn't technically anyone's boss.

Foreman wasn't acting any differently, so obviously he didn't know anything else about House's legal problems besides what happened and the subsequent arrest. _Check_.

Thirteen was her usual quiet, demure self. Whether or not she knew anything about his jail time or house arrest was a moot point because clearly she had no intention of violating his privacy anyway. _Check_.

Taub, with his idiotic suggestion of a case that had already been diagnosed and his usual snide attitude about everything else, might as well have been just another piece of office furniture. Obviously he didn't know anything either. _Check_.

Chase was the hardest one for House to read. House loved trying to figure Chase out because Chase was such a complicated puzzle. Such a web of interesting lies, problems and nasty behavior behind that innocent, boy-next-door face. If Chase knew anything, he hid it well behind that poker face. He'd have to keep his eye on Chase.

House was thankful, yet again, that his nemesis Martha Masters was gone. He never wanted to have to deal with her incessant need to always tell the truth about everything even when it compromised a diagnosis with disastrous results for everyone else. Her presence was also a very painful reminder of exactly how much control he had let Cuddy exert over him. Having her around now would be fatal because he'd have to kill her. Then he smiled, albeit to himself. _Of course I wouldn't really kill her, but a guy can daydream, right?_

House dug into the patient file.

Hairy Kid was a five year old boy who started sprouting hair in places a five year old child shouldn't yet have hair. That's where it started, anyway, a few months ago. About a month ago, Mommy started to notice the kid was sprouting more new hair growth, this time on his back and abdomen. He was also starting to show signs of a unibrow.

As far as medical history, the kid had no documented medical history because Mommy had never taken the kid to a pediatrician. House was more intrigued by the minute.

According to the history obtained by the nurses when the kid was admitted, Mommy was living in some sort of an alternative religious commune when she got pregnant with Hairy Kid. The commune was a predominantly farming community in upstate New York. _Check._

Daddy, apparently, was also daddy to other kids by other women in the commune. _Double check._ There was a section on the form for notes, and that was in the nurse's notes. The nurse must have asked if there were any documented medical conditions on the dad's side of the family.

Hairy Kid, therefore, was Mommy's only biological child but not Daddy's only biological child. They would need to get more detailed medical histories from Daddy and Daddy's other offspring.

Back to the reason why Hairy Kid had never been to a pediatrician. House was more and more consumed by that question as the minutes ticked by.

House was well-versed in many of the world's religions. Although he did not believe in any deity or adhere to any organized religion, he was fascinated by the doctrines of the world's major religions and by those who adhered to those doctrines. While most of the theological doctrines from the world's major religions preached no bias against seeking professional medical help, there were a few religions and breakaway sects that encouraged followers to seek other forms of help first for medical problems before going to medical doctors.

House knew, obviously, that there were many parts of the world where people grew up without attention from medical doctors because they simply were not available. That excuse didn't apply to Hairy Kid and Mommy, though.

In a nutshell:

Mommy's medical history, as far as it had been documented, contained no clues about any hereditary genetic conditions which would cause excess hair growth.

Mommy's prenatal care was undocumented. Since they knew that Hairy Kid received no professional medical care since birth, it was highly likely that Mommy received no prenatal care from a medical doctor, either.

Hairy Kid had never seen a medical doctor; so House deduced that he had also never received any childhood vaccinations. Living in a remote, small, secluded community also meant that the kid probably hadn't been exposed to most of the common ailments that spread like wildfire among large populations of kids in close proximity to each other, such as head lice, chicken pox, strep throat, and so forth. Hairy Kid's immune system was probably in the trash simply because of lack of exposure to these common childhood ailments and lack of vaccinations. _So now Mommy plucks Hairy Kid from his little bubble and dumps him right in the middle of a big city in a hospital full of bugs._ _Triple check._

House leaned back in his office chair with his legs propped up on his desk, completely absorbed in the file. The photograph of Hairy Kid in the file was from last week when he was originally admitted to PPTH, and even then the kid looked pretty freakish.

_Mommy's probably Taub's dream girl,_ House mused to himself. _Doesn't want to get hitched, doesn't mind having illegitimate kids by a community stud muffin, and has a kid who could easily make any plastic surgeon very rich. I'd bet a hundred bucks she's hot, too._

He abruptly shook himself out of his reverie when Chase, Taub, Thirteen and Foreman entered his inner office.

Sure enough, Taub had done an exhaustive physical examination and medical history on both the kid and his mommy. Taub handed a much thicker file to House. Foreman had ordered blood work, Thirteen was preparing for a skin biopsy and Chase did the talking for all of the fellows.

"We confirmed Mom had no prenatal care. She doesn't know anything about the dad's medical history. Dad apparently just sleeps with the women and isn't involved at all in raising the offspring," Chase volunteered.

"Must be your idea of the perfect guy," House interjected with a scowl. "Get on with it. I have to be somewhere soon."

"We also confirmed the kid has never had any vaccinations. According to the mom, the kid has skin allergies to a lot of things. She claims that's the reason why she doesn't want the kid vaccinated against anything."

"How the hell would she know that?" House interjected again.

"Apparently they have some kind of practitioner in their commune who uses herbal remedies for things. That's the only kind of medical care anyone in the commune receives. Apparently this person told her the kid is allergic to a lot of stuff, but the mom has no idea exactly what the kid might be allergic to."

"Of course she wouldn't. Idiots who don't take their kids to doctors generally don't know anything about allergy testing. Give the kid a scratch test. Be careful, though. Finding a patch of bare skin on Magilla the Gorilla is going to be hard," House retorted.

"Done," Chase replied. "We had to shave his back. It was pretty cool. We're going to read it tomorrow."

"Allergies don't explain hirsutism, though," Foreman said.

"No, but this kid is a diagnostic gold mine. We can't afford to miss any puzzle pieces, no matter how unrelated they may seem. If the kid really does have allergies, especially contact allergies, we wouldn't be able to see them with all the hair. We might be looking for several different metals in that mine. We need to find and analyze every little piece of ore."

His fellows left the office one by one. Never one to miss any details, at least not when he was on top of his game, House continued to study every one of his fellows intently. His game plan would have to change if any of them suspected the extent of his legal troubles. Chase was the last to leave. House could tell from the confused expression on Chase's face that Chase knew something was up.

"Go home. Nothing you can do until you read the allergy test results tomorrow," House said from his office chair, never breaking eye contact with Chase.

"Why haven't you been in to see the kid? He looks like Bigfoot. Never been to a doctor. It's your dream patient. And Mommy's so hot she could make a preacher cuss."

In a quick, desperate move to change the subject, House fortunately remembered that he had an appointment to get to. Talk about good timing.

House packed his backpack and told Chase, with much irritation, to go home.

Chase knew something was wrong, but he also knew House. He knew House wasn't about to tell him what, among the many possibilities, the problem was. Chase stood his ground, crossed his arms, and said, "You're hiding something. I know you're not going to tell me what it is." House smiled thinly and interjected, "Thus the definition of the word 'hiding'."

Chase turned on his heels and left.

After he was sure Chase was out of earshot and the outer office was empty, he closed and locked the doors in the outer office. He pulled the shades shut. He closed and locked his inner office door, and pulled the shades shut. House pulled out his cell phone and called the cab company for a ride to Sam Bell's office. He also called the monitor phone to report the trip to his attorney's office.

Thirty five minutes later, the cab pulled up at the desired spot. He had no intention of being picked up right in front of the hospital because he was going to have to take a lot of cabs until he got his driver's license reinstated. If they always picked him up and dropped him off right in front, he'd get maximum employee exposure, and he didn't want everyone wondering about why he was taking cabs everywhere. So he'd told the cab dispatcher to have the cab pass the front entrance and they could pick him up about twenty five feet away from the entrance. Each time he had to use a cab at PPTH he would try to use a slightly different pickup or drop off point. Sooner or later people would catch on that he was taking cabs everywhere but he hoped to try to delay the speculation as long as he could.

The cab ride to Sam's office was short, and thankfully, quiet. This driver didn't want to talk, which suited House just fine.

House made it to Sam's office with a few minutes to spare. House walked in through big, impressive glass doors into a spacious, sunlit waiting room. There was a small receptionist's desk where he signed in for his appointment. The receptionist asked him to take a seat in the waiting room and she asked him if he wanted coffee, tea, or water. House hoped that didn't mean he'd have to wait long enough to actually finish a beverage in the waiting room. That couldn't be good. He declined the offer. Contrary to most office waiting rooms, there were no paintings in this one. There were comfortable couches and love seats instead of the usual, perfunctory straight backed chairs found in most waiting rooms. The walls were a pale mauve color, framed with beautiful crown molding and accented with fall flower arrangements in the corners. The place looked like it belonged in Better Homes and Gardens. Music was piped in, but the overhead speakers were quiet. There were wireless headphone stations at several strategic locations. If people wanted to listen to the music they could do so with the wireless headphones. Since there were several listening stations, people could select the kind of music they wanted. Otherwise the waiting room was blissfully quiet.

To most people, this type of environment fostered a feeling of calm and relaxation – very helpful attitudes to have in a legal office.

To House all of this extravagance in a waiting room could mean two things. First of all, it could mean that they were trying to keep people comfortable during what were probably very long waits in that room. Secondly, it could all just be a vain attempt to impress clients. House would rather be impressed by a confident attorney with a winning record than by a posh, expensive waiting room.

Fortunately he didn't have long to dwell on those thoughts because he was called back to Sam's office within just a few minutes.

"Afternoon. How's your house arrest going?"

"It sucks. Let's get on with this. How long do I have to wear this damn thing?" House said, indicating his ankle monitor.

"I have no control over that. That's up to the judge. I know they're going to keep it on until your case is adjudicated one way or the other. We need to talk about your charge, its potential ramifications, and how I think we should proceed."

"Go on," House said quietly.

"As we know, you were charged with Assault with Intent to Commit Great Bodily Harm. The charge was filed by the district attorney. They could have filed it as a misdemeanor or a felony. The charge was filed as a felony. If you're found guilty of the charge, the maximum penalty is four years in prison. Four factors must be present in order for the judge to find you guilty of this charge. There has to be an apparent and present ability to carry the act out, which you had. It has to be an unlawful attempt, which it clearly was. There has to be an intent of committing an injury – and this is where our best defense is. There also has to be reasonable fear of bodily injury, which Dr. Cuddy certainly had. Of the four factors that must be present to find you guilty of this charge, the prosecution will have no trouble proving three of them. Our position will be that you had no intent of committing any injury."

Sam paused a minute to make sure that House understood what he just said.

"You pled not guilty to the charge as I initially recommended. I've got the arrest record and the police report. The arrest record is what they filled out when you turned yourself in. We don't have anything to worry about with regard to that. The police report contains some potentially damaging statements made by Dr. Cuddy." Sam handed a copy of the police report over to House, who regarded it as if the ink on it was poisoned. He really didn't want to read it again, but he had no choice.

"Have you ever assaulted Dr. Cuddy before?"

"No."

"Have you ever assaulted anyone you work with?"

_Well, now. That's a potential minefield._

"Your hesitation in answering that question speaks volumes. Did you punch one of your employees?"

"Not recently."

"She made a statement, as you can see in the police report, that you have a history of violent behavior at work. That statement alone is very damaging. If it's true, it could be a game changer."

House took a deep breath. Might as well just close the damn prison doors on him now. "I punched my fellow, Dr. Robert Chase, on the jaw several years ago."

"Were any charges filed against you then?"

"No."

"This is part of the public record now since she actually said that in the police report. She didn't say who you punched; she merely said that you had punched one of your employees. What happened in that incident?"

"That's not relevant to my current situation."

"Not directly, but they'll try to use it as proof that you have violent tendencies. What happened?"

"At the time, Dr. Cuddy and Dr. Wilson were prescribing my Vicodin for me. Cuddy decided that I needed to come off the Vicodin and talked Wilson into complying with her. They stopped prescribing for me and as a result, I was in severe pain. I couldn't find another physician willing or able to prescribe my Vicodin on such short notice, without an extensive workup first. I was in so much pain I couldn't think straight and I could barely walk. She ordered me to go home but by that time I really had no choice. I had to go home. On my way out the door Dr. Chase approached me with some news about the patient and he grabbed my shoulder. I was in pain and I reacted accordingly. When he grabbed my shoulder I punched him."

"Ok. I hope the details of that never come up in trial; I'll try to suppress as much of that as I can. Punching an employee, regardless of the reason, isn't going to help you if a jury hears about it. Have you ever physically assaulted anyone else at work?"

_Hmmm…. How to answer that one?_

"That hesitation in your answer is not good. I'll bet a month's salary the prosecution asks you that question. You'd better not hesitate. I need to hear it from you myself, though. Have you ever assaulted anyone else at work?"

Ever the master at lying his way out of any sticky situation, House knew that his momentary hesitation had already given him away. There was no way to lie his way out of this one.

"It depends on what you call assault."

"Then let's change the question. Have you ever hit anyone else that you work with?"

"Define 'work with'."

"Stop deflecting and answer the question," Sam said firmly. "I can't help you if you're not honest with me."

Looking away from Sam, House answered softly, "Yes."

"Explain."

"It was a long time ago. The patient's father hit me first."

"Were charges ever filed against you, or did you file charges against the guy who hit you?" Sam asked.

"No."

"Let's hope that instance doesn't come up in court. I think the issue is that if this additional information is heard before a jury, they won't have any trouble finding evidence for all four factors. I think we need to nip this in the bud before it goes to a full trial."

"You mean I should admit I'm guilty," House fired back angrily.

"I mean I think we should offer them a plea bargain. We can't try for simple assault because a car was involved. Simple assault really only applies when there is no weapon involved. A car is a weapon. Remember, I said that Assault with Intent to cause Great Bodily Harm can be filed as a misdemeanor or a felony. They filed it as a felony, but I think we should offer them a plea bargain. You pled not guilty to the felony. I think we should make them an offer that you'll plead guilty if the charge is reduced to a misdemeanor. If they agree, then the next issue up for debate will be appropriate punishment. It'll be up to the judge, but if they agree to reduce it to a misdemeanor, I'll argue that your punishment should be restitution, time served, and a year of probation. That's not unreasonable for an assault in which nobody was hurt."

"Plea bargains are for wusses. Sissies. I'm pleading guilty to something and I don't even have a chance to defend myself."

"House, you hired me to provide the best defense I can. They're going to try to prove that you have a history of aggressive behavior at work. My position is that the instances were impulsive, not aggressive. True, it was only sporadic, may have appeared justified and it certainly doesn't seem typical for you. There may even have been aggravating circumstances, but one instance involved a patient's family. I guarantee you that if Dr. Cuddy was told about it, she'll tell her attorneys, and if a jury ever found that out, you wouldn't have a hope in hell of defending yourself in front of a jury. With this latest information, I am suggesting that the plea bargain I just mentioned is your best defense."

"You're useless!" House yelled. "They want me thrown in jail for four fucking years! So what, are we talking about two years in the big house for a misdemeanor? I shouldn't serve ANY more time! A plea bargain means I have to plead guilty to something without a chance to defend myself!"

Sam took a few moments to clear the air and let House calm down a little bit.

"I can't prove you're not guilty of any assault because there are plenty of witnesses to testify that you are. I believe that our chances of winning such a defense are next to nothing. A car is a weapon, and the use of a weapon in the assault makes it impossible to plead down to a simple assault charge. My job is to give you the best defense I can, and the best defense I can give you is to plead guilty to a misdemeanor assault. That carries the least severe punishment."

Again a few more moments of silence ensued. House's face was an emotional war zone.

"I need to talk to Wilson first."

"That's fine," Sam replied.

"Pleading guilty to a misdemeanor instead of a felony doesn't mean that you have no voice in the matter. It doesn't mean that you just have to accept whatever they say without defending yourself. You still need to present a convincing argument in favor of reducing the charge from a felony to a misdemeanor. We have to prove that not only was nobody injured but also that there was no intent to injure. I think we have a good chance of proving both of those points. The best thing about this kind of plea bargain is that we only have to prove our case to the prosecution in front of a judge. Most likely a jury wouldn't be involved."

"I still need to talk to Wilson first."

"I'll go along with that but the sooner I have an answer from you, the sooner I can file the motion. I'd like to ask that you have an answer for me within a week."

House limped slowly out of Sam's office. He felt defeated before he even had a chance to defend himself. Realistically he knew Sam was right and so was Wilson. He _was_ guilty of assault and even though nobody was injured, he knew he was damn lucky they didn't charge him with attempted murder. House was coming at this from years and years of experience as the defendant in any number of malpractice cases. The suits had never resulted in any convictions. He was actually more accustomed to defending himself than he was allowing an attorney to represent him. The idea of turning control of his case over to an attorney was really rubbing him raw. He knew he needed Sam's help. That didn't mean he had to like it, though. In House's mind, "defense" meant "prove I'm not guilty." He was having trouble wrapping his mind around the concept of "defense" meaning "admit that I'm still guilty but of a lesser charge." Realistically he knew he was guilty and that pleading guilty to a misdemeanor assault charge was the way to go, but emotionally he still desperately wanted to be proven completely innocent of everything and have the charge dropped completely. Actually what he wanted was for all of this to just go away, but that was just completely irrational and obviously was never going to happen.

House's chariot arrived within a few minutes and, after the perfunctory call to the monitor company to report he was on his way home, the duration of the ride was completely quiet and uneventful.

As the cab pulled up in front of House's front door and House saw his bike parked in its usual spot, he felt the old familiar call of the road, the almost overwhelming desire to just chuck it all and hop on the bike, damn the consequences. In his younger days, when the risk was worth the consequences, he'd have found a way to cut the ankle monitor off, get on the bike, find the prettiest section of straight highway, zip that thing up to 180 mph and chuck the ankle monitor down a nice steep ravine somewhere. With his helmet on, his bike fueled to the max and his bag packed, he'd keep riding off into the sunset to who knows where, to start all over again in some dream place like Montana or Arizona. Damn the Mercer County Department of Corrections. Damn the license bureau who stripped him of his driver's license. Damn Cuddy. Damn everything.

The cabbie tapped him on the shoulder. "We're here."

House paid him and limped slowly past the bike without giving it a second look.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N – And the smexing starts! I intended the smexing to be poignant and tastefully written. I hope it comes across that way.**

Wilson had just arrived home from work and had camped out lazily on the couch watching a blues special on PBS. A hot British guy was riding a bicycle in the French Quarter in New Orleans, talking about the blues. The guy was a masterful musician too, and they kept cutting in to show his band rehearsing and footage from some great live performances. They had an A-list of guest musicians, too. Hell, even Tom Jones was resurrected. His voice had aged like a fine whiskey, and he sounded better than ever.

House trudged in through the front door and Wilson looked up from his laid-out position on the couch. "How'd it go today?"

"Sit up. Give me some room."

House limped over and plopped down next to Wilson. House was unable to suppress a grimace as he used his hands to lift his right leg up onto the coffee table. "Time for your evening Methadone?" Wilson asked, noticing the grimace. "Not yet. Just had a long day." They turned their attention to the captivating music on TV.

"Who the hell's that?" House jerked his cane to the hot guy playing the blues.

"Remember that guy from Blackadder? That's him."

"Wasn't that on the air 20 years ago? I used to see him on Masterpiece Theater all the time. Wow, he sounds great! Got the DVR on? We need to record this. I need to get that album. It went fine today."

"By 'fine,' do you mean 'fine' or do you mean 'I just have to say something to shut him up so let's try saying it went fine and hope I don't have to explain that'?" Wilson asked, a little playfully and more than a little seriously.

"Shut up. I want to watch this."

"I'm not going away. How did it go?"

"Seriously. I'll tell you later. Shut up and let me watch this."

_Ouch. _Wilson cringed at the repeated brusque command. He told himself that House tells everybody to shut up all the time. That didn't make it any easier to take, though. Wilson could have told him how sick he was of being told to shut up, but this time he thought maybe it might be wiser to just let the rude comment go. Discretion turned out to be the better choice, especially since his initial impulse was to throw a shoe at House and shove him off the couch. Instead, Wilson wordlessly rose, with a loud pointed sigh and an attitude, from the couch.

Obviously House didn't want to talk and was actively seeking out ways to avoid doing just that. Wilson took his cue and figured he'd be better off in the kitchen. Wilson said, "Ok, I'll pick up that conversation right in the middle of dinner when I'm sure you'll tell me to shut up yet again, so you can enjoy your food."

"Yeah, I'm sure you will. In the meantime would ya mind 'picking up' one of my guitars? I can play along with this guy."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Wilson said. He plunked House's Gibson Super Jumbo in his lap. Minutes later, the sweet refrain of "Police Dog Blues" could be heard from both the hunk on TV and the hunk on the couch in the living room.

A little while later, they were well into Wilson's meat loaf and mashed potatoes when House decided to volunteer a little bit of news about his day.

"We got a case today."

Wilson looked at him silently.

"It's one of Cuddy's clinic patients."

"Oh?" Wilson replied. House was measuring his words so carefully it was amazing he said anything at all.

"Yeah. Five year old kid sprouting hair like a Chia pet. Kid's never been to a pediatrician. No vaccinations, no physicals, nothing."

"Sounds like your dream patient," Wilson said.

"Yeah," House said, munching on his food and looking resolutely at his plate.

Wilson kept looking at House, expecting or maybe just hoping for House to really answer his question.

House abruptly jerked upright and returned Wilson's stare. He slammed his knife and fork down against his plate so abruptly and with so much force it almost splintered the plate. "How the hell do you think it went today? You knew it was going to be hard; I knew it was going to be hard. I got through it."

"One thing you will never be is easy to read. Apparently you haven't noticed that I don't like being told to shut up especially when you and I obviously have something to say. I guess you only want to talk when it's your idea to talk. When I start the conversation, you tell me to shut up, repeatedly. Being told to shut up gets old quickly," Wilson replied, avoiding House's gaze. Wilson had had enough, and it was time to fight this battle, but he guessed correctly that he might have a better chance of winning this skirmish if he didn't stare directly at House when saying it. He said what needed to be said in a calm, cool, and unthreatening manner.

It was House's turn to sigh. It was also his turn to bite his tongue. It took every iota of self control that he had not to lash out with "Apparently you haven't noticed that I don't like to be nagged, either, idiot!" He knew Wilson was right. Score one for Wilson. "I know. I'm sorry."

A few minutes of silence passed while Wilson composed his thoughts. "I know it's hard to talk about stuff like that."

"Mmm hmmm," House agreed, "and it never gets any easier. My patient's dad doesn't give a crap about him. Daddy sired a lot of kids by other women in the commune and apparently he pretty much stops giving a crap about them after they're born. The kids grow up worshipping him as god or something, but it's all a one way street. The dad doesn't give a crap about the kids. We are looking for a genetic component to his hirsutism but Mommy doesn't even have a basic medical history on the dad. Not knowing your dad at all is better than knowing your dad is the community sire and the only connection he wants to maintain with you is to make you think you share DNA."

"And you see a little of yourself in him," Wilson replied.

"I never said that. You know Taub says he has two buns in two different ovens now. No better than Magilla Gorilla's dad. Whether or not Taub sired them both, and by the way I will find out, the cycle continues. Guys siring babies that they will never give a damn about."

"I guess you didn't see Cuddy today."

That earned a silent glare from House.

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Wilson persisted gently.

"It doesn't matter. She has her fingers in everything whether she's there or not. She's like a giant octopus with a slimy, scaly tentacle in everybody else's business whether it belongs there or not. She suckers people into doing whatever will benefit her and when she's used them all up, when the only thing left is a pile of bones, she spits 'em out like a slimy old fur ball. So no, I didn't see her, but it doesn't matter anyway."

"Has she ever referred a case to you and then backed off completely, let you completely alone to diagnose the case? No. House, this is a first and it's something to celebrate."

"Yeah, I'll always celebrate the anniversary of the day I left jail and went back to that dump with a piece of jewelry on my ankle, hiding from the woman I had fifteen years' worth of fantasies about and a year-long mistake with."

"She's hiding from you. You're not hiding from her. There's a difference," Wilson countered. "She's the coward, not you."

"Semantics, Wilson, semantics! I hid in that damned office all day and that isn't likely to change any time soon. It doesn't matter if I have some other reason I have to be trapped in that office or not. It all boils down to the same thing. I'm hiding from her at work. The only difference is this time she doesn't want to find me."

"At least you don't have clinic duty," Wilson said in an attempt to lighten things up a bit.

"There is that little perk," House acknowledged.

"Come on, help me with the dishes, jerk," Wilson said with a further attempt at jocularity. House, for all his darkness and moodiness, could be delightfully funny without any effort. Wilson had a wonderfully dry sense of humor too. He could fire off a one-liner with a perfectly deadpan expression so quickly that some people didn't realize right away that he was joking.

House cracked a smile. "Dinner's over with. I want to play with my toys."

House's kitchen was not equipped with a dishwasher. It was difficult for him to stay on his feet in one position long enough to wash dishes every day, which was another reason why he ate out or ate take out so much. House remained seated at the table, secretly enjoying his great view of Wilson from behind.

"In about two seconds I'm going to leave these damn things where they are. If you want to eat off clean dishes tomorrow, get your ass up and help me."

"In about two seconds neither of us is going to be in the mood for doing dishes. I'd suggest you leave the damn things where they are and get your ass back on the couch," House countered with a smirk.

Wilson turned back to face House with a big, surprised smile.

"Seriously. I told you, I want to play with my toys."

"Ok, I'll bite," Wilson said. He rinsed and stacked the dish he had just washed and walked over to the couch.

"Not too hard, I hope," House countered.

Wilson turned the TV on. PBS was airing another great documentary narrated by Steve Martin on the history of the banjo.

"Either turn it off or mute it," House commanded from the kitchen.

Just as Wilson was about to issue a smart comeback about being commanded to do anything, the opening bars of a beautiful Gershwin tune emanated from the piano, followed soon by the dreamy words.

"_There's a saying old_

_Says that love is blind_

_Still we're often told_

'_Seek and ye shall find'_

_So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind."_

A gutsy, brisk, boogie woogie instrumental solo followed. Wilson's jaw dropped. House's musical abilities were renowned but Wilson didn't know he was such a good arranger as well. This was George and Ira Gershwin's well known ballad turned on its ear.

Wilson's toes were tapping and just when he almost jumped off the couch with a wicked dance move, the tempo changed abruptly to a slow, bluesy rhythm.

"_Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet_

_He's the big affair_

_I cannot forget_

_Only man I ever think of with regret."_

The music stopped for a split second and then jumped right back into the strong boogie woogie instrumental solo.

Back to the blues again; real, down home country blues.

"_I'd like to add his initial to my monogram_

_Tell me where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?"_

House yelled, "Well, come on over here!"

Wilson sprinted over to the piano bench, nestled close to House. Both men's voices united in song loud enough to be heard in heaven.

"_There's a somebody I'm longing to see_

_I hope that he_

_Turns out to be_

_Someone who'll watch over me."_

House sang the next verse solo because Wilson's eyes were getting dangerously misty. He wasn't tearing up yet, but he knew he wouldn't make it through the next verse if he tried to sing it.

House's beautiful, soft, slightly nasal tenor voice rang out clear.

"_I'm a little lamb who's lost in the woods_

_I know I could_

_Always be good_

_To one who'll watch over me."_

An instrumental solo followed. House wasn't looking at the piano keys. He stared almost dreamily at Wilson. For a moment House was afraid he was acting too sappy, but for once he let his emotions come out and then he stopped suppressing everything. Wilson got the unspoken message, thought for a split second about changing one of the words, and sang the next stanza solo.

"_Although he may not be the man_

_Some guys think of as handsome_

_To my heart he carries the key."_

A short instrumental solo followed. It wasn't intended to be an instrumental solo, but both guys needed a minute to think about what was going on here in these magical moments at the piano.

House finished the solo and both men united again in vigorous, strong, loud voice.

"_Won't you tell him please to put on some speed_

_Follow my lead_

_Oh how I need_

_Someone to watch over me.  
>Someone to watch over me."<em>

Wilson sat there spellbound, in the moment and definitely in the zone. Their eyes locked again.

The playing stopped.

The eye sex intensified.

Gears were grinding wildly in House's mind.

_Damn it all to hell._

_I love this man, and it's time to show it._

House threw his arms around Wilson and gave him the deepest, most intense kiss he'd ever given anyone. He'd never kissed another man before. He was massively turned on by the feel of Wilson's smoothly shaven face against his scruff.

Stunned, and temporarily paralyzed by surprise, it didn't take Wilson long to return the kiss in earnest.

The men pulled away from each other for a moment, studying each other's reactions.

"You ready for one more?" House asked with a smirk.

Thinking House meant the obvious, Wilson smiled and threw his arms around House. House laughed, said "Not what I meant, idiot," and resumed one more stanza on the piano.

"_Won't you tell him please to go down the street_

_buy us some weed_

_Oh how I need_

_To have a toke over us._

_Let's have a toke over us."_


	14. Chapter 14

House Arrest chapter 14

**A/N – I got some of my inspiration for the House/Wilson conversations in this chapter and in the previous chapter from pgrabia's latest story, A Cup of Terror. If you haven't read that yet, I think it's pretty good. I'd also like to thank Brighid45 for her help with parts of this story including Chapter 13. Her story, Autumn Wine, is another excellent read.**

House thought he knew everything there was to know about Wilson, but after their beautiful rendition of "Someone to Watch Over Me," Wilson demonstrated a talent that not even House knew about.

Wilson found a kazoo sitting on top of one of House's amplifiers. He launched into a killer version of "When the Saints go Marching In" and, as it turned out, he was not only proficient on the kazoo but he was also pretty darn good on the jaw harp too.

House played along on the piano until he was so mesmerized that he had to stop. He wasn't as fascinated by the fact that Wilson could play the kazoo and the jaw harp as he was by the fact that he'd missed that fact all these years.

"Figures, a Jew can play a Jew's harp," House said with a wink and a smirk.

"For your information, dummy, it's not a Jew's harp. That's a misnomer. It's a jaw harp. I can only play things that don't have any buttons, keys, holes or strings; pretty much just the kazoo and jaw harp."

House just stared at him, still stunned by this new knowledge. He was about to ask why he'd missed that fact all those years, but changed his mind at the last minute. What he actually said was even more significant.

"Why did you hide that from me all these years?"

"I didn't hide anything."

"I've known you for twenty some odd years! Why wouldn't you tell me that you could play music?" House exclaimed.

"I never hid that from you. You never asked me. Most of the time when I come over here, you're not at the piano; you're in front of the TV or getting ready to go out. The few times I've found you at the piano, you stop playing the minute I walk in the door. And the one time you played guitar while I was home at my place after Mayfield, it was six o'clock in the damn morning and the last thing I wanted to do was play or even hear any music."

"Yeah, the St. Amber shrine did need a bit of a homey touch," House replied and then immediately wished he could take it back.

They were still sitting on the piano bench, next to each other. House looked Wilson in the eye. He'd just said something he wished he could take back. Wilson didn't look the least bit bothered by the mild teasing about Amber, so House decided to leave well enough alone. He was still a little uncomfortable with such close contact with another man, but now that he knew how heavenly Wilson's smooth cheek felt against his scruffy face, he knew he would quickly overcome any lingering reluctance to be intimate with Wilson. It wouldn't be long. He just hoped that Wilson would still be there when he was ready to take it to the next step.

"Don't hide anything from me again."

"House," Wilson said gently, "I told you I didn't hide that from you. It's fun playing music with you. Do you want to play something else or are we done for the night? I'm really kinda tired and you are too."

House shook his head and closed the top over the piano. "I think I'm done for tonight." Before he could say anything else a noticeably loud grimace escaped his lips. He hung his head and swore softly under his breath. Wilson looked at House's hands and saw the clenched fists, the slight sheen of perspiration beginning to bead up on House's forehead, and the clenched mouth.

"Ready for your evening Methadone yet?" Wilson asked softly as he got up to get the medication for House.

"I can't get up," House ground out, hunched over his piano and staring resolutely at the keyboard. His fists were balled up in rage, pain and frustration. It took every ounce of self control he had left to avoid smashing his fist into Lucille's exquisite ivory keys.

"I hate this!" he screamed. "Stupid thing cramped up."

Wilson immediately moved to start massaging House's thigh.

"No, stop!" House gasped. "Don't touch it. Go….go….. go get a towel, soak it in water and microwave it for a minute. I'll try that."

Wilson ran for the towel and had it ready for House within a minute along with his evening Methadone dose.

House usually made it impossible, or nearly so, for anyone to feel any kind of empathy for him. Living with House, Wilson saw an aspect of him that other people rarely saw because he hid it so well in public. Wilson was reminded every day that he was with House that he lied about a lot of things but he wasn't lying about his pain. House rarely showed pain in public because he viewed it as a sign of weakness. He had always looked forward to being able to let his guard down at home. Wilson figured that was because nobody was there to see how vulnerable House felt when the pain was bad.

Wilson was alarmed that the pain was this bad on Methadone.

"Should I call the pain clinic? I thought it was manageable on the Methadone."

"I was hurting when I came home from the lawyer's office but sometimes that just means I have to take it easy for a little while; you know, get off my feet. That's why I had to get to the couch so quickly. Then we got busy talking and having fun. Usually when I sit down at the piano I have a heating pad on the bench with me. I forgot it tonight. Don't worry and don't call anybody. The hot towel will work. We just have to give it some time, and I have to tweak the dose schedule." House said all of that with his head hanging down. He hadn't budged an inch. Although he would never hurt Lucille, his clenched fists were shaking as if he would have punched a hole in the piano in an instant if it wasn't his beloved Lucille. "Damn, damn, damn" House kept muttering under his breath.

Wilson felt useless just sitting there, unable to help any more than he had.

"Sure there's nothing more I can do?"

"No, just let me sit here. I'll be fine."

A few moments passed and House began to noticeably relax. His respirations calmed down and he stopped gasping. He finally, slowly raised his head and unclenched his fists. "Whew. That one was bad. All these years I've never hit Lucille. Thought tonight was going to be the first." He patted his beloved black piano with tender loving care. "I'll never hit you, babe."

Looking up at Wilson, House said, "Want a piano lesson? Here's your first one. Never sit for hours in front of one without some heat close by."

Wilson felt helpless just waiting for House to get up, but years' worth of experience had taught him that House never ever wanted any help, especially when the pain was bad. He'd fallen occasionally and been knocked down many times in public and when anyone offered him help to get back on his feet, it was always refused. Wilson surmised that House's pride had taken quite a beating over the years. It was natural that he would go to great lengths to preserve his dignity.

So Wilson did the next best thing and went back into the kitchen to resume doing the dishes. House would have privacy and wouldn't feel like he was being rushed to get up.

Wilson stood there idly doing dishes, and his mind wondered back to the piano incident. Although he couldn't see House from where he was standing, the fact that he hadn't yet heard any movement indicated that House was still sitting on the piano bench, probably putting his leg through some gentle range of motion in preparation for standing.

Then the irony of the situation hit Wilson like a fully loaded freight train. If anyone else had felt the kind of physical pain that House had just endured for those few moments they would have made matchsticks out of that piano keyboard and screamed cuss words worthy of the devil.

Everyone has relationships that break up. They're normal speed bumps on the highway of life. They deal with them and move on.

The kind of physical pain that would cause most folks to drive over that speed bump and then right off a cliff was nothing but a minor obstacle in the thoroughfare of House's life. Most people would pray for the day when the road was repaired and the speed bump could be removed. Wilson knew that the road House was on would never be completely repaired. House tried to repair it himself and ended up damaging the road even more. He would have to cross that speed bump of pain every day of his life. As bad as it was, he had no trouble driving right over that speed bump and just going on down the road. But the kind of emotional pain that would cause just a minor detour in anyone else's life was enough to make House crash his car through a brick wall.

Talk about irony. House suffered chronic physical pain the likes of which few people had ever had to experience, and did it mostly in silence without harming a flea. But he couldn't endure the kind of emotional pain most people suffer many times and learn to handle early in the course of their lives.

Finally he heard the rustle of movement from the living room. It took House over thirty minutes to recover from this cramp enough to the point where he could get up from the piano bench. Wilson actually could have finished the dishes long before now. He just took his time doing them so that House could have all the privacy and time he needed to recover.

House limped straight back to the bathroom, passing Wilson silently.

"I know you'll tell me if you need help," Wilson said wryly, in the general direction of House's back.

"When that day comes I'll tell you to shoot me."

When House was finished in the bathroom, Wilson took his turn. The dishes were done, and the kitchen and living room were neat and tidy again. Both were tired and ready for bed.

Wilson finished his nightly routine in the bathroom. He walked into the bedroom with tousled hair, wearing a nice new pair of Thanksgiving-themed flannel pajamas. House was propped up on his side of the bed with his reading glasses perched about halfway down his nose, doing a New York Times Thanksgiving-themed crossword puzzle. Wilson looked at House and then at the puzzle. It never ceased to amaze Wilson that House could do these very demanding, difficult puzzles in pencil and then not erase anything. Most people do these puzzles in pencil because they know they're going to have to erase a lot. Wilson liked to do them too, but by the time he finished them, the paper was usually peppered with eraser holes. House could fly through them and never touch eraser to paper.

"You should do them online. Save the rubber trees, save the world," House remarked with his eyes still glued to the puzzle.

"What's the theme?" Wilson asked, still intensely interested in House's puzzle. As many times as House had pilfered food from Wilson over the years, Wilson had never retaliated. This puzzle looked so good, so tempting. Wilson didn't feel like going back to his computer to go online and get another copy of the puzzle. He was just itching to snatch House's unfinished puzzle right out from underneath his manipulative, lying, sarcastic, slender and sexier-than-hell fingers.

"The theme is Thanksgiving Thefts. Snatch it and die."

"Think about that the next time you show me your skill at stealing my food, shoving it into your mouth, sassing me back and showering me with crumbs of my food all at the same time. I might get to the cafeteria before you do and sprinkle my food with my own special House seasoning," Wilson said with a wickedly evil grin.

Deliberately making a show of writing fast, House finished the puzzle with a dramatic flair, tore it up, crumpled the pieces into a paper ball and threw it away. He missed the trash can.

"You'll pick up the mess in the morning," Wilson said with an even more mischievous grin.

"Just bring Hector back over here. Let him eat it like he chewed up everything else. Goodnight, Wilson," House said as he turned the light off. Normally he slept better on his stomach or left side, but there was enough discomfort remaining from the earlier cramp that he needed to sleep on his right side with the heating pad under his right thigh. The Methadone helped immensely tonight, much better even than Vicodin would have, but nothing could replace missing muscle. The smaller muscles in his thigh would never be able to completely compensate for the missing quad muscle, and every time he varied his routine (like he did tonight, sitting at the piano bench for so long without a heating pad) those tiny muscles bit back hard. What made it worse was that he had a lot more scar tissue in there now as a result of the toxic experimental medication he'd given himself, the surgery he performed on himself afterward and the two additional surgeries after that that were required to fix the damage he did.

The time needed to recover from such a bad cramp could vary from an hour to all night. House hoped that the Methadone would cut the recovery time down so that he could actually sleep the night through tonight.

Wilson apparently wasn't as tired as House was.

Before long, House felt the gentle, feathery touch of Wilson's fingers moving up either side of his spine. Wilson's touch was so light that it almost tickled.

_Oh my God, not tonight_, House thought. Part of him was ready and part of him wasn't.

Wilson's touch became a little more firm. House felt Wilson's fingers and palms begin a deep, relaxing back rub. He began massaging in small, counterclockwise circles at the top of House's shoulders. Slowly, as every inch of skin was covered, he moved southward. Then House began to feel Wilson's warm breath seductively caressing the back of his head and the nape of his neck.

_God this feels so good…. I'm not ready…._ Actually, Little Greg was ready but the part that wasn't ready earlier still wasn't ready.

House's inner war was raging. He craved, and even reveled in this attention. It was wonderful. But sex always ruined everything. It certainly ruined things with Cuddy and looking back on it, after all these years, he realized it probably ruined things with Stacy too. They tried to have a normal sex life after his disabling surgery, but bit by bit the sex stopped. They stopped having intercourse fairly quickly because in his mind, every time Stacy saw the scar he could see a reflection in her eyes of all the pain, suffering and disfigurement that he had blamed her for. He'd taken to keeping his pajama pants on for sex. They had a fly, and that was all he needed, he reasoned; he could still free Willy when needed, and Stacy wouldn't see his scar.

Since intercourse wasn't any fun with long pants on, eventually he got to the point where they stopped having intercourse. They tried fellatio, but House continued wearing long shorts or pants to bed to keep his scar covered. Stacy tried to get him to ditch the pants but that would have meant he'd have to endure her looking at his scar, so they stayed on. He gave her plenty of oral sex in return, but it was becoming obvious by that time to both House and Stacy that a healthy sexual relationship needed to include intercourse with their clothes off. He thought Stacy was trying to pressure him into accepting his new body image faster than he was able to. He wasn't ready to bare everything, physically or emotionally.

When they stopped having sex altogether, it was no surprise to either of them, and it wasn't long after that that Stacy moved out and that was the end of that.

So now he was at the plate with a two strike count. A third strike and he'd be out. He'd hit plenty of home runs with hookers with his pajama bottoms on, because the hookers only had eyes for the money. If Little Greg worked for the hookers, all he needed was a fly that opened, and the pants could stay on. Wilson wanted every bit of House and House knew that would have to include taking his clothes off. House desperately wanted every bit of Wilson. He was not willing to risk a third strike.

House was getting increasingly aroused by the minute. If he didn't do something now, pretty soon he wouldn't be able to stop this train.

"Stop," he said, breathlessly and huskily. "Stop."

"Why? What's wrong?" Wilson whispered gently against the back of House's head. House had not turned over to face him yet.

"Just stop. I'm not ready."

House was still facing away from him. Wilson sat up, leaned over and craned his neck so he could see House better. "It certainly seems like part of you is," Wilson said.

"That part of me is ready all the time. The rest of me isn't."

"House, turn over and look at me."

With a sigh, House secured the heating pad to his leg and turned over to face Wilson.

"Good. That's better. As sexy as the back of your head is, I'd rather look you in the eye when we're talking. Do you love me?"

Taking a moment, House replied softly, "Yeah, I guess."

"All you have to say is 'Yeah, I guess'? It's not a difficult question. It doesn't require a qualifier."

"I do," was House's simple and, this time straightforward, answer.

"Well I love you too. Why couldn't you just say yes the first time?"

House sighed again, closed his eyes and said, "Because I know where this is going."

"Yeah, if we're going to be together sooner or later it's going to happen. Why not just relax, enjoy the moment and let it happen?"

"Because I can't lose you."

Wilson wasn't about to force anything on House that he wasn't ready for. Besides, House had a point. Wilson could say that he wasn't going to leave House a million times, but Wilson himself had been through three divorces and multiple girlfriends. He knew what it felt like when sex broke up a relationship. He also knew that convincing House that he wasn't going anywhere would be exceedingly difficult, given Wilson's marital history and the history between the two of them.

"I don't want to lose you, either," Wilson conceded.

Both men rolled onto their backs, sighed and looked at the ceiling, almost as if they were afraid to look at each other. After a moment's silence, House turned his head in Wilson's direction. He added, "So what do we do now?"

"We go to sleep and do it all again tomorrow." Wilson turned to face House. "Should I move to the couch?"

"Your back can't stand the couch, and neither can my leg. I don't want you to think I don't want you. Sex ruined everything with Cuddy and it probably contributed to why Stacy left too. So pardon me if I don't want history to repeat itself."

How Wilson wished he could say, "History doesn't have to repeat itself." In all honesty, though, Wilson knew that trying to refute this argument was futile. Wilson had as much, if not more history in the failed relationship department than House did. In Wilson's case, certainly, history had repeated itself over and over again. He was hardly one to preach about the need to break the cycle.

"I don't either. Listen, I love you, numbskull, and I don't want to drive you away. I have an idea that might make things a lot nicer; a lot easier. Let me think on it and we can talk about it again later. Just please promise me that you will talk about it, ok? Please?"

"Come on, Jimmy; you know I can't stand puzzles with one piece missing. Tell me now," House pleaded with a silly grin on his face.

Wilson was dead serious. "We could move in to the loft. There would be more room."

"You mean there would be another bedroom. We'd be living together and apart at the same time. Tried that before. Didn't turn out too well, as I vaguely remember," House finished.

"A mistake which I'll freely admit was mine. I want you, any way I can get you. If you want me as badly as I want you, hell, we'll work something out. Meanwhile, let's get some shuteye."


	15. Chapter 15

Wilson slept the night through. House laid awake most of the night, listening to Wilson's deep, regular breathing and watching Wilson turn in his sleep. How envious he was of the fact that Wilson could turn any way he wanted without fear of stabbing pain to jolt him out of sleep.

His body wasn't what was keeping him awake tonight. If only he could shut his mind off just long enough to drift off into Stage 1 of sleep; then the Methadone and his own natural circadian rhythm might take over and let him sleep the rest of the night. It wasn't to be. Now he thought Wilson was pressuring him to have sex. He wasn't ready. He had no aversion to having sex with another man. He'd actually loved Wilson for years now, and it was wonderful knowing that Wilson felt the same way. But it had to be earned. They had to prove their monogamous commitment to each other. As far as House was concerned, neither of them had proven it yet.

Things bombed with Cuddy because they had never established any kind of commitment before jumping into bed. They did it in the heat of a very traumatic moment; an understandable reaction, but still, that's all it was; a reaction to trauma. Initially, House even tried to refuse her advances. Then the sex became consensual, but still, it wasn't the way to cement any kind of relationship.

Now House had something worth preserving, worth working for. If history wasn't going to repeat itself, and he was bound and determined to see that it didn't, he'd need to see a lot more commitment from Wilson first. He suspected he'd need to show the same thing to Wilson too before he'd consider that they had earned the right to do the deed.

So House pondered the possibility with trepidation that what they were really in now might just be a test. He remembered what he'd said when he substitute-taught that diagnostics class all those years ago, and shared the story of his infarction with the students. He'd said that he found it more comforting to believe that his experiences during that time weren't simply a test. He hoped fervently that this also wasn't simply a test.

House had had maybe an hour of sleep when Wilson's little plastic alarm clock went off. Wilson quietly rose from the bed, trying unsuccessfully not to wake House. "Don't bother sneaking around. I was already awake; if I wasn't, your cheap little Thomas the Tank Engine alarm clock would never have done the trick. Get something a little more adult, why don't you," House grumbled from under the covers, with his head buried in the pillow.

"Hey! A nine year old gave that to me when he finished his last chemo treatment. We thought it was cute."

"It might be cute if it wasn't set to go off at 6:30 in the damn morning."

Wordlessly, Wilson padded into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the shower started and Wilson began singing "Under the Boardwalk" slightly off key. House thought about a snappy comeback to Wilson's off key singing, but frankly he was so grateful to have Wilson there that he didn't want to risk saying something to drive him away. In times gone by he'd have had no trouble saying something sarcastic about the off key singing or something even more sarcastic about the early alarm, but now he had something to lose.

Wilson actually expected to hear some kind of sarcastic comment from House about his singing. The absence of any criticism was unusual and a bit surprising. "What, no smart ass comments about my singing?" he shouted from the shower. When he got no reply, he stopped singing, turned the shower off, stepped out, wrapped himself in a towel and went to check on House.

In the bedroom, House was standing over the foot of his bed, holding on to the foot board for dear life with his left hand and he had a death grip on his cane in his right hand. He was holding his right leg suspended over the floor, afraid or unable to put any weight on it. As if that wasn't bad enough, Wilson realized there was another problem. House's left ankle had swelled up just a little bit overnight. Ordinarily it wouldn't be a big deal and would resolve quickly just with moving around a little. Unfortunately the strap on his ankle monitor wasn't elastic and had no give to it. It was digging into his ankle just a little bit. Not enough to do any real damage, but enough to be irritating.

"House, what happened?" Wilson asked with alarm.

"Nothing. I'm fine," he muttered softly.

"No, you're not. Stop lying to me. Come on, sit back down a minute." Wilson moved under House's left arm so he could loosen his grip on the foot board and move to sit back down.

"Damn. All I wanted to do was join you in the shower. Your voice needed some help, anyway," he ground out, staring at the floor.

"What happened? And don't say 'nothing'."

"I really need to tweak my Methadone dose schedule. I didn't take any before getting up because I wasn't hurting. Thought I'd take it after we went all scrub-a-dub-dub-two-men-in-the-tub. Obviously that plan didn't work." House looked up at Wilson with those pleading blue eyes. "I'm so damn sick of this shit. I can't even have one moment of fun without having to plan for it ahead of time."

_Ok, time to stop the pity party, _Wilson thought. Doing some quick damage control, he sat next to House and said calmly, "Then we just need to tweak the schedule, that's all. Nothing we can't handle. You said yourself you weren't in any pain before you got up. That's good. I know if I say 'look on the bright side' you'll smack me so don't smack me, and don't get discouraged. Now shut up, take your morning dose, and stop whining."

He tipped his morning Methadone tablets into his mouth, and chased them down with a big swig of bottled water.

"You have another minor problem. Lift your legs back into bed. You need to elevate your left leg."

"Haven't you got this bass-ackwards? I'm not going back to bed. It's time to greet this lovely day," House said with a wickedly dark tone to his voice. All the while he was rubbing his right thigh like there was no tomorrow.

"Your left ankle is a little swollen. I don't think it's anything to worry about but the swelling won't go down if you don't elevate your leg on something."

"What I need to do is get rid of this damn thing," House said, indicating his ankle monitor.

"What you need to do is stop complaining about something you can't do anything about, and listen to me. Put your legs back in bed so I can put a pillow under your left leg."

"You treat me like a damn invalid." House complained loudly, while at the same time doing what Wilson asked him to do.

"I talk and you don't listen. If that's treating you like an invalid, well, then, I'm guilty," Wilson said calmly. "You're not going to get me riled up that easily."

House looked down with indifference at his slightly swollen left ankle. "It's happened before. There's nothing wrong with the circulation in my left leg. It happens when I lie too long in one position in bed. I can't turn as easily as you can. It'll be fine as soon as I can get up and move around. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, and you have a nylon strap around your ankle that has no give in it. That has to hurt. I know the swelling isn't bad, but do you want some ice on it?" Wilson asked, and then all too quickly remembered House's history with ice. "Ok, ok, I know. Stupid question. No ice."

House cut in. "I know you're trying to help. Thanks. I don't need any more help. I promise, I'll be fine. Just leave it alone. Please drop it."

"Fine. I'll be out in the kitchen making coffee."

Wilson saw his opportunity and made his escape to the kitchen. True to his word, he did make coffee. As soon as the coffee maker started making a little noise and the wonderful scent of freshly brewing coffee was in the air, he grabbed his cell phone and darted outside.

He hit speed dial number 20, the number for House's ankle monitoring company.

"Hi, my name is James Wilson. I'm calling about an inmate, Gregory House. He's on house arrest and you're monitoring him," he said breathlessly and with furtive, darting looks around him as though the FBI were after him or something. The last thing he wanted was for House to find out who he was calling and why.

"Everything's fine. Listen, I have a question. Can I bring him in to have a different kind of strap put on the monitor?"

The answer wasn't exactly what he expected. "That is a highly unorthodox request, Mr. Wilson. The strap has to be made of a material that the inmate can't cut or break. And it has to be tight enough that the inmate can't stretch it over his ankle and off of his foot."

Taking a deep breath, Wilson persisted. "I think he's allergic to it. He's been scratching the skin under the strap and picking at the strap pretty much nonstop since it was put on. This morning his ankle is swollen and the strap is digging into his skin. I think it needs to be looked at."

"Mr. Wilson, he'll need to be brought in to the Mercer County Jail so they can look at it there."

"Oh, that'll never happen. I'm not bringing him back there. He'll also never agree to go to an emergency room to have it evaluated, either. Can you all send someone out to his home or workplace? You know what, never mind. He's coming. I gotta go." Wilson flipped the phone shut. He could hear House's much more uneven than usual footsteps in the living room.

Wilson went back inside. "What, having a smoke out there? Why, Jimmy! Lots of things I didn't know about you," House commented, clearly trying to figure out why Wilson would sneak out the door and then just stand there instead of bolting in his getaway car. Wilson just stood there with an all-knowing smile on his face. "Ok, no smoke. Who'd you call, then?"

"Nobody."

House was still in his pajama pants, sleep top and bare feet. The pajama pant leg had ridden up over his ankle monitor. His left ankle was red, slightly swollen and covered in welts. "Look at your ankle. It's blistering!" Wilson commented. "How long did you keep it elevated back there? All of fifteen minutes? House, you're allergic to the nylon. Inmates usually wear socks under the monitor, but you've been wearing your socks over it to hide it, so the strap has been in direct contact with your skin and the rash was hidden. That's why I haven't noticed it before, and obviously you had no intention of saying anything. You need to get it checked out."

"Oh, so you called the monitoring company, huh?" House looked incredulous. "I told you not to worry about it. But now look what you did. You just raised their antennae. I told you to leave it alone. Yeah, I'm allergic to it. The swelling is minor and will go down when I get moving. I told you not to worry about it. The welts and blisters will go away. I just put some hydrocortisone cream on it. That's what I've been doing ever since I got this thing. I'm taking diphenhydramine too. They'll go away. When they come back I just put some more cream on there and take some more diphenhydramine. So what if I'm allergic to nylon? What are they gonna do? The only straps they have are nylon. They won't use elastic because I can pull it off my foot. They won't use leather because I could cut it off with a good pair of garden shears. I wanted to go HOME, Wilson! That means house arrest with whatever they make me wear! I'm not stupid! If ANYONE tries to cut it off, meaning even a doctor in a hospital, I go back to jail. It doesn't matter if another doctor does it in an emergency room. And I'm not going back to MCDOC for them to tell me what I already know. If I can't wear nylon, I can't do house arrest. I go back to jail. Period. Thank you for starting the ball rolling." House stormed back to his bedroom, as well as he could on a lame right leg and a swollen left ankle, and slammed the door shut.

Wilson followed. "House, I'm sorry! I was worried about you. I didn't even know you were allergic to nylon, let alone that they can't use anything besides nylon as a strap. I'm sorry!" he called to the closed door.

"You wonder why it's hard for me to trust you. Leave me alone. Visiting day in jail is Friday." House's voice was muffled, not only by the closed door but also by the blanket or pillow he was undoubtedly face down in.

"House, open the door." The door was locked. House didn't budge.

"So words don't mean anything. Let me take care of this," Wilson said a little sheepishly.

"No. You've done enough. Let me be."

"Put more cream on it and take some more diphenhydramine. It doesn't mean they have to remove it altogether. I can lie as well as you can. When the welts are gone, we'll go in to MCDOC and I'll tell them I was wrong about the allergy. All you need is a larger strap. You can still wear a sock over the monitor like you have been. We'll just wrap the strap with something you're not allergic to."

Silence ensued; then some very uneven footsteps could be heard approaching the bedroom door. House opened the door silently, turned around and headed back for the bed.

"You can't lie to someone's face. Call them here and tell them it wasn't an allergy. They're sending the Marines out now. Call them now and tell them everything's ok. They know I'm where I'm supposed to be. Call them now, please!" House pleaded.

Wilson dialed the number right there in House's bedroom. "Hello, my name is James Wilson. I called a few minutes ago about inmate Gregory House. He's right here and everything's fine. He's not allergic to the strap. Don't send the cops out. Everything is fine."

The voice on the other end of the line was not sympathetic. "Mr. Wilson, do you know that it is a felony to file a false police report?"

Incredulous, Wilson raised his voice. "I didn't file a police report! I thought my friend was allergic to the nylon so I called because I wasn't sure what to do about it! I never filed any kind of police report!"

"Mr. Wilson, we've already dispatched the police to his residence because you said the monitor needed to be looked at. The only place they can address any issues with the monitor is at MC jail."

House, sensing the impending disaster just from the look on Wilson's face, hobbled to the bathroom and miraculously found some beige skin-tone foundation makeup in a bag of makeup items that, obviously, Cuddy had left behind. Miracle of miracles, the color was close enough to his own skin color that he might be able to fool them. He smeared it all over his ankle, being careful not to get any on the monitor, and held the strap away from his skin long enough for the makeup to dry. It did a serviceable job covering up most of the welts.

Wilson hung up the phone and within minutes, the high lonesome sound of a distant siren could be heard. Wilson started acting like he was terrified. House just sat on the bed, resigned to whatever his fate might be. Usually when he adopted this kind of flat affect, it was a ruse. In this case, it was no act. He had no control over how the cops would react. He knew that whatever happened, he was at the mercy of the Mercer County Department of Corrections.

"If you don't stop panicking, they'll think you and I really have something to be concerned about. Stop it, now," House pleaded. Wilson was pacing the floor, twiddling his fingers and rehearsing what he was going to say. "Answer the door when they come and let me do all the talking." House added.

The siren became noticeably louder and then abruptly cut off. Wilson popped the door open while the cops were still half a block down the street. "Close the damn door! Stop acting like you're looking for them! Jeez!" House was still in the bedroom; for the most part he was unable to get up. He knew he'd better summon up the ability to tough out the pain and get up, because if Wilson answered the door looking like a deer caught in the headlights, House didn't have a chance of getting out of this without going back to jail. Taking a mighty deep breath, he lurched to his feet, ignoring the loudly complaining muscle, and went to the door just as two uniformed policemen walked up and hit the doorbell. House shot a quick glance over at Wilson and told him to shut up and go sit down somewhere.

"An officer and a gentleman! What can I do for you this fine morning?" House said in his best "I'm a good boy" voice.

"The monitoring company called us because they received a report that you had a problem with your ankle monitor."

"And it's all resolved now, I assure you, sir," House answered in a forced polite tone of voice. If they awarded Emmys to doctors, he surely deserved one for the act he was putting on now.

"Where is Mr. Wilson? He called in the report," the other policeman chimed in.

"He's indisposed at the moment." Indeed, Wilson had retreated to the bathroom; in part because he had completely lost his composure the minute he heard the siren, and in part because he was enduring the end result of losing his composure. A toilet was mandatory. House _did_ tell him to go sit down somewhere. What better place to sit than on the toilet where he could have his meltdown and nobody would be any the wiser?

"What is the problem?" policeman A asked.

At the current moment, House was standing in the door frame, blocking the entrance to his home. He wasn't about to let the policemen in his home with Wilson in his current state of near hysteria. House lifted his pant leg very quickly and showed them his monitor. "See, intact and all. I woke up scratching under the strap and he panicked. He thought I was allergic to it. As you can see, there's no rash. Everything is fine. I'm sorry you had to come out here for nothing."

With arched eyebrows and a very suspicious look, policeman B pulled out his notebook and began writing the report. "If you really have a problem with it, you need to speak up now."

"No problem, honestly. I had some dry skin under the strap. I scratched it, and he thought I was allergic to it. Promise. Everything is fine."

"Uh huh," nodded policeman B, looking more and more suspicious by the minute. "We write up every call we get. Here's your copy of the report. Have a good day," policeman A wrapped up the visit. House took the yellow copy of the report and closed the door. Before they were out of earshot, House could hear the follow up conversation between the two cops.

"Do you believe any of that? The monitor company wouldn't tell us to come out here for nothing."

"No, but the monitor isn't alarming and we didn't have probable cause to investigate further. I'll bet it won't be long before we get another call from this location, though."

"Yeah. Never trust a perp."

House heard all of it. It wasn't like he hadn't talked like that within earshot of patients, so the fact that they were talking about him behind his back didn't bother him. What bothered him was the knowledge that Policeman B just assumed that they would be called out to this location again. They didn't even know him, and had already labeled him a loser, a failure.

With the cops gone, he abruptly dropped his macho self-assured attitude. His shoulders slumped. He moved to the couch and flopped down on it with a loud groan.

"You can come out now. The bad guys are gone," House called in the general direction of the closed bathroom door. "Spray good in there before you leave, though. My fan doesn't work and I can smell it from here."

Pretty soon the sound of water splashing in the sink could be heard. Some type of heady floral scent wafted its way out towards the living room. "What did you tell them?" Wilson asked.

"That you panicked over nothing. I picked my pant leg up for about three seconds, just long enough for them to see the smooth beige skin underneath the strap. But now they think they're going to be regular visitors here."

Wilson was back out in the living room now, looking decidedly more relaxed and confident now that the cops were gone. At the same time, he felt like he was the one who deserved the lecture now. If House had something to say, he would be justified in saying it.

Expecting to hear the lecture, Wilson sat down next to House with his hands folded in his lap, patiently waiting for the harangue to start.

"What, you waiting for me to yell at you? I already did that. No need to do it again. I'll probably have to keep the cop act polished and shiny. Expect I'll be doing that a lot. I'm a magnet for cops and you're a worry wart. We are who we are. I need to wash the makeup off, put some more hydrocortisone cream on it and take some more diphenhydramine; then its off to work we go. We ok, Wilson?"

Wilson gave House a big, warm, disarming smile and clapped him gently on the back. "If you can put up with my neurotic ass, then yeah, we're ok."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N – remember this is AU. House's team is still intact. In this chapter it consists of Chase, Taub, Thirteen and Foreman. **

On the way in to work, House and Wilson were both paged. House was so eager for any kind of normalcy that he actually appreciated getting pages these days. He answered the phone on the first ring.

"Tell me."

"Hairy kid has acne," Chase said, and before he could go on House interrupted with "Who doesn't?"

"What's even more interesting than a five year old hairy kid with acne is why you sound like you're actually happy we paged you."

"Yeah. I love you. Get on with it. You wouldn't call me because the kid has acne, which leads me to my point, which is that the kid crashed and you morons don't know why."

"Kid was throwing up all night and started seizing about an hour ago. We finally got the seizures under control and that's when Mommy spilled the beans about Daddy."

"Tell me." House was really chomping at the bit now. The case was getting more interesting by the minute.

Chase had his phone on speakerphone. Taub was about to speak up, and from the way he looked, it seemed apparent that he had something asinine to say. Chase silenced him, turned the speakerphone off, put his phone to his ear and said, "We have more for you when you get in."

Meanwhile, Wilson was dealing with his own problem. A new local ordinance had just been enacted banning cell phone use while driving. According to the news, if the cops saw a driver with a cell phone in hand while operating a motor vehicle, it gave them probable cause to stop the motorist. When his phone rang, Wilson instinctively answered it. House then instinctively ripped it out of Wilson's hand and threw it in the glove compartment.

"You're just bound and determined to make me even more attractive to the cops than I already am. In case you're not as up to date on legal issues as I am, it's illegal to have a cell phone in your hand when you're driving."

"Then I'm pulling over. I was paged. You can't just rip the phone out of my hand," Wilson said. "And since when do you care about being a law abiding citizen?" As he said this he was looking in his rear view mirror at the lovely sight of two Princeton policemen in a patrol car directly behind him. They didn't appear to be watching him and the siren wasn't on. Wilson, however, tensed up like a murderer on the run.

"Stop freaking out every time we see a cop!" House hissed. "For God's sake, relax! I freak out enough for both of us." House could barely contain his own impending meltdown. He couldn't see the cops' faces in the rear view mirror but he could damn well see the patrol car. It wouldn't do for him to turn around just to get a look at their faces. For all House knew, they had a picture of him in their car. Maybe they had a list of all the inmates on house arrest. If they saw any kind of fear or suspicious activity coming from the car right in front of them, the cops would pull them over in a second. As long as they weren't doing anything wrong, they wouldn't be detained, but it was bad enough just to be pulled over especially when one of the passengers was on house arrest.

Wilson dutifully put his turn signal on, and when traffic was clear, he turned into a parking lot. The cops proceeded along on their way; they weren't tailing him after all. House looked at Wilson with a smile. Perspiration was running down Wilson's face and his hands were shaking. House wasn't much better, but he still managed a smile and patted Wilson on the back. "Hah! Mr. Johnny Be Good just broke the law and got away with it!"

On the surface, House enjoyed seeing Wilson squirm. Terror was hiding not too far under the surface of that façade, though. House was having a hard enough time not having a heart attack every time he saw a cop. So far this morning, they'd encountered cops not once but twice, and Wilson freaked out both times. That wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Wilson was supposed to be the strong one.

Wilson looked ready to hyperventilate and pass out.

"Look, Wilson. Ever heard of probable cause? When people act suspicious around cops, that alone gives them probable cause to investigate further. I have a right to be paranoid; you don't. I can barely keep the lid on my nerves when I'm around cops and right now you're worse than I am. I know I have a weird way of showing it but I appreciate what you're doing for me. I just need you not to freak out around cops, that's all. Act like you're being a good role model for me."

That brought a laugh from Wilson. He finally began to relax and regain some of his composure. Smiling, he said "Yeah, I need a constant reminder that I have to be a good role model for you. Like you could ever be as morally upstanding as I am."

Thank God the car was in park and the ignition was off because both men let out a loud snort of laughter and started punching each other in the shoulder.

"Oh shit," Wilson gasped with laughter and relief. "I forgot about the page. Gotta call them back."

Holding the phone up to his ear, he returned the page.

Wilson's end of the conversation was the only audible part.

House looked like a rooster on acid, craning his neck every which way trying to hear the caller's end of the conversation. It was very distracting. Wilson couldn't tell if House was deliberately trying to contribute something to the conversation or just being an ass. He got his answer when House started pulling faces.

"Hold on," Wilson said to his caller. "You know how it is with three year olds. Every time I get on the phone, mine starts acting out. I gotta take care of this." He put his caller on hold. "House, for God's sake, stop." House sat still like an angel until Wilson got back on the phone. Then he started a conversation in American Sign Language, trying to get Wilson's attention.

"Oh, for God's sake. I guess my three year old is going to have to learn his lesson the hard way. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll tire himself out. Oh wait, yeah, it's House. That won't work. Well, just go on with it."

The caller continued describing the problem. Wilson answered, "Yeah, got it, she has a fever. What antibiotics is she on?" Wilson listened for a moment while the caller gave him that information. House was signing _Put it on speaker phone._

Ignoring House completely, or at least trying to, Wilson said "Ok, get some blood cultures and start her on Aztreonam. I'll be in as soon as I can." He clicked the phone off.

"All I wanted you to do was put it on speakerphone," House complained.

"And I don't always need your help to diagnose my patients. You have your own case to obsess over. I can take care of mine." As irritated as he was at House's antics, he couldn't help but smile. He loved every part of House, every facet of him; especially the side of House that wouldn't stop irritating and playing pranks on him. It made him feel loved and so much less alone. It certainly made life more interesting.

"We need to get going. Here, make yourself useful. Put the phone in the glove box," Wilson playfully commanded as he tossed the phone softly over to House.

Wilson started the engine and merged back into traffic. With his head fixed straight ahead, House continued to furtively scan the horizon looking for cops. Wilson wasn't so shy about craning his head around every corner, every parking lot, every intersection, looking for those grey, black and yellow patrol cars. He was so ready to have to slow down and be careful that he could barely keep his foot off the brake pedal.

House glared at Wilson. "Stop acting like Pinhead the Paranoid Parrot!"

Eventually Wilson relaxed a little and House stopped telling him not to be paranoid. House turned his attention to the radio, fiddling with the tuner until he found a good blues station. By the time the station had played a few good Stevie Ray Vaughan songs, they'd arrived at work. They turned into PPTH and Wilson realized, stupidly, that he'd forgotten House's handicapped placard again. House had a screw-on handicapped license plate for his motorcycle, a screw-on handicapped license plate for his car, and a hang tag for use when he was riding in someone else's car. The hang tag was designed to hang on the rear view mirror in the front seat. Before they pulled into House's parking spot, Wilson frantically looked all over the car, including the glove compartment, for the hang tag. Too late, he realized he must have left it at home.

The comments from the passenger seat peanut gallery started. Wilson stared stoically straight ahead, waiting for the biting remarks to come.

"Tell me. You left my hang tag at home. Why don't you just keep it in the car like I told you in the first place? You expect a cripple to hobble from your parking space half a mile away?" House asked with an expression that was difficult to read.

If he was serious, Wilson was ready to slap the shit out of him. If he was teasing, this wasn't really the best time to tease. PPTH hospital security regularly patrolled this lot and they paid extra attention to the handicapped spots. Every vehicle parked in a handicapped spot had to have a handicapped parking hang tag or license plate mounted on the vehicle. Vehicles parked illegally in the handicapped spots were subject to a $300 fine and towing. Wilson still had his turn signal on indicating a turn in to House's parking spot, but both men could see the outline of a PPTH hospital security patrol car distantly in the parking lot. They couldn't park in that spot and they couldn't just sit there arguing about what to do. Other cars were entering the physicians' parking lot and if they sat there much longer, they'd attract unwanted attention from PPTH hospital security.

"It's your tag. Don't blame me because it was left at home. You should take responsibility for it. Meanwhile, I can't park here. Let me drop you off at the door then I'll park in my spot. But wait for me. We need to talk on the way up to the office."

"Yes, Master," House replied.

Wilson pulled the car up another few feet in front of the entrance and House dutifully climbed out. Wilson noticed House was actually moving pretty well this morning in spite of the recent problems. He was almost back to normal mobility, which meant that he was limping pretty fast, and if Wilson didn't get that damn car parked quickly and get moving, House would beat him up to the office. Wilson needed a few more moments with House to talk about what happened this morning with the cop car, before they got to the office. Obviously House knew Wilson's intentions and was currently trying to beat him upstairs. _Damn_, thought Wilson.

Wilson darted down the aisle to his own parking spot about a hundred feet away from House's. Hurriedly he grabbed his briefcase and keys, locked the car and ran to try to catch up with House.

He barely made it.

House was still waiting at the elevators when Wilson breathlessly came to a stop next to him. "I told you to wait!" Wilson panted.

"And I don't want to talk about whatever it is you're trying to pressure me into talking about." House made a show of darting his eyes about the room, looking for some way out of this conversation that was sure to begin any moment. Unfortunately one elevator was broken and the other apparently was working overtime, so the wait for the one remaining elevator was unusually long. The only escape routes were the clinic, Cuddy's office or the stairs; one of which was impossible and the other two House avoided like the plague.

His shoulders slumped. "Say it, then. I guess I have no choice but to listen since it's not like I can escape."

"We have to figure out a way not to freak out when we see cops," Wilson whispered, more for his own benefit really than for House's.

House looked at Wilson and sighed for the "No, 'we' don't. 'You' do. I said it before. I'm entitled to freak out. You're not, at least not when you're with me. Get a grip on your nerves, Wilson, because I sure as hell have enough trouble with my own. I can't be worried about what YOU'RE going to do when we see cops."

"Yeah, you're right," Wilson said quietly. "Got a pill for that?" he said, looking at House with a sly grin.

"Oh, shut up," House replied with a smile.

They arrived at the fourth floor.

Reaching out with his left hand as usual, House flung open the glass door to his outer office. Head up, shoulders squared, he limped in at top speed just like usual. He threw his backpack into his inner office just like usual and announced, "So, whatcha got for me this fine morning?"

Chase, Thirteen, Foreman and Taub were assembled in the outer office in their usual spots. The four ducklings had coffee and bagels in front of them. "What, none for me?" House said teasingly. "You don't know how to make good coffee anyway. What's up with Hairy Kid?"

"About time you got in," Taub spoke up. "What took you so long?"

House glowered at him. "None of your business, Mighty Mouse." Turning to Chase, House asked, "Your turn. What's up with Hairy Kid?"

Chase never liked to show excitement around House. That angelic, youthful face could hide a lot of emotion. Inside, Chase was as excited as a six year old boy with a new puppy, but outside, he worked hard to maintain an innocent, almost expressionless demeanor. Getting excited just gave House a reason to shoot him down.

Calmly and with his best poker face on, Chase said, "The dad sired a bunch of hairy kids. Our Hairy Kid isn't the only one; he's the only one who's otherwise sick. Mom fessed up when she found out I was going to search their house. I haven't been to the commune yet because it's pretty far away and the mom stopped me before I could leave. Whatever our Hairy Kid has, the other little hairy kids have too."

"Great. That tells us it's either environmental or genetic. We can't rule out environmental because someone hasn't done their job. Chase, get over there and search the home and the commune. Get photos of the other hairy kids. Get samples of the shampoo, the body soap, the laundry detergent, and anything else that comes into contact with the kids' skin. Find that holistic healer idiot, too. Maybe the quack used something on all the kids."

House was over at the coffee pot pouring another cup of his own House brew. He turned his attention to the whiteboard. Thirteen had written "Hirsutism, unibrow, seizures, vomiting" on the board.

"Kid act like a normal baby when you talked to him?" he said, looking at Thirteen. "And by normal I mean bratty, just like any three year old."

"He's five. He's not a baby. And no, he's not bratty. He is a little off, though. He doesn't always maintain eye contact with us when we talk to him. He speaks like a normal five year old and answers our questions, but whenever we ask him about his dad, he finds a toy or something to play with and shuts up completely. He doesn't even go to his mom for comfort. She can be right next to him in the room but he finds comfort in toys rather than in his own mother. He repeats behaviors with the toy, too. Mom says he's not autistic. He sure looks like it. Asperger's, maybe?" Thirteen answered.

"Yeah, I guess Mommy knows more medicine than people with advanced medical degrees. Alright people, we have a new symptom. Autistic behavior. Doesn't mean he actually has autism or Asperger's. Given the other symptoms, the behavior is a symptom of whatever else is going on. Find out if the other hairy kids are behaving the same way." House wrote the new symptom on the board.

Everyone left the office except Taub. House tried to avoid any conversation Taub might be interested in since every time the man tried to initiate a private conversation with House, it was always about something House didn't want to talk about and usually wasn't any of Taub's business anyway.

House retreated to his inner office, closed the doors and the blinds.

Taub knocked. "Nobody home," House answered. "Too bad. I need to talk to you," Taub persisted.

"Well, I don't want to talk to you unless it has something to do with our patient," House replied in an irritated fashion.

"It doesn't, but we need to talk anyway." Taub was still talking to House from behind a closed and locked door.

"I guess the fact that the door is closed and locked, and the shades are closed, plus the fact that I just told you outright, isn't enough to convince you I don't want to talk to you. Go do your job unless you don't want a job anymore. I can make that happen damn quick."

"House, I'm not going away. I need time off."

"Not approved. Now go."

"Rachel is pregnant. I have to talk to you about this. I need time off to figure out what to do."

"Tiny Taub already figured out what to do or else Rachel wouldn't be pregnant. I'm guessing there's more to this strange conversation than you're telling me, or else you wouldn't be talking to me from behind a closed, locked door. I seem to have no choice but to hear the rest of this unwelcome conversation so come on in. Make it quick."

House unlocked the door and Taub let himself in.

"Rachel's pregnant. It's mine."

"So you've already established. Get on with it," House spat back. His ankle was really starting to itch and the last thing he wanted to do was set the monitor off with Taub standing right in front of him. This conversation was boring, unnecessary and driving him nuts.

"Ruby is too, and it's mine."

"Fix Tiny Taub and you won't have that problem in the future," House said while staring at Taub as if to say, _this has to be the stupidest conversation I've ever had. _

"I need time off to figure out how to handle this. Rachel doesn't know I got Ruby pregnant."

"Seeing as you and Rachel are already divorced, who cares? It's not my problem. As someone just said, your time off is not approved. Go away."

Taub stayed. The look in House's eyes changed from irritated to dangerously angry. House narrowed his brows and enunciated clearly to Taub as if speaking to a little child. "Get this clear because I'm not repeating it. Handle your problems on your own time. You're fired now if you don't leave my office this minute."

"You can't fire me for needing to take time off to handle family problems," Taub dared to say.

"Watch me. Back off. You can't win this pissing match. When you were in private practice you worked for your partners. Here, you work for me. I'm your boss. You're being insubordinate."

Taub thought they'd reached a stalemate, but House had rarely been beaten in chess or in any other game. This game was no different.

Taub stood there with his arms crossed, and angrily spat out "Insubordinate? Seriously? Do you even know the meaning of the word? Hell, you crashed through your boss' house. If that isn't insubordinate I don't know what is. Jeez. Give me a break."

"That's it. You're fired. Get out."

House had fired Taub and other fellows before. It was always a test; a power play. Every time House had fired Taub before, he fully expected exactly what he got; Taub to come back more confident in and more sure of his diagnostic abilities. In House's mind, when Taub was in his plastic surgery practice it was a fall back position of safety. House never played it safe. In House's mind, plastic surgery was for robots who wanted nothing better than a brainless way to make money.

This time was different. Some personal problems necessitated taking time off from work but getting two women pregnant at the same time wasn't one of them. House had had to handle worse personal problems than this without taking time off from work. He'd had enough of this nonsense from Taub, and it was time to do the right thing and cut the man loose.

"I'm not kidding. You're gone. This isn't a power play." House looked back down at his computer as he was filling out Taub's termination paperwork online. Taub was stunned.

When the printer spat out the paperwork, House said, "You've been terminated for insubordination. Here's the paperwork. Bye. Don't make me call security."

Taub's jaw was still on the floor. He waited a few more seconds and then realized this was no joke. House was dead serious. Taub scuttled out of there when he heard security coming down the hall, but they weren't coming after Taub.

House's vigorous scratching had set the alarm off. PPTH hospital security was after him.


	17. Chapter 17

House heard security coming down the hall and assumed they were coming after Taub. While he was printing out Taub's termination paperwork, he sent an instant message to the security department to escort Taub out.

At the same time, PPTH hospital security received a phone call from the Princeton police department. Mercer County DOC called them because House's ankle monitor alarmed. Princeton police were on their way to PPTH and they called PPTH hospital security ahead of time.

House had no idea they were coming for him until two hospital security guards barged into his office, followed soon by the same two police officers who had responded to House's home earlier in the day.

Officer A looked at Officer B when they recognized the outraged man in his office chair, trying to hide behind his computer. House knew he hadn't done anything wrong, but who ever believes anything inmates say? These people weren't doctors. In House's mind they'd probably look at the rash, the scratch marks and the swelling, and still assume the worst; that he had been trying to cut it off.

Trying to back away in the chair was futile and, worse than that, idiotic, since House had done nothing wrong.

"Your ankle monitor went off," Officer A said with barely disguised irritation. "Want to tell us what happened?"

House propped his left leg up on the desk, pulled his pant leg up and his sock down so that all could see the rash, swelling and scratch marks. Nobody said a word for a few minutes.

"What'd you try to do, cut it off?" Officer A said. Big mistake.

House knew he should have said something when they put the thing on, but at the time, he was in a tough spot. At the time the monitor was applied, he was told that the straps were only made of nylon and there was no alternative material. He thought his choice was between wearing an ankle monitor he was allergic to and staying in jail. Given no other choice, option 1 was the only option. At the time he just hoped the allergic reaction would be easy to manage. It was, initially, until he discovered that the longer the thing stayed on, the worse the reaction got. It was still just a topical reaction but now the hydrocortisone cream and the oral diphenhydramine were becoming less and less effective in managing the symptoms.

All of which led to this. House was surrounded by four cops, one of whom clearly didn't understand or care that rash + swelling + scratch marks = allergy.

He struggled to put a lid on what he really wanted to say, which involved calling all of them idiots (and that was the nice part). While he was composing something less threatening to say, something that hopefully wouldn't cause them to haul him away in handcuffs, Wilson made an appearance. He'd heard the commotion from his office.

Wilson was about to say something when he recognized the two officers who had responded to House's home earlier. _Oh my God, it's them, _he thought. He saw House's left leg propped up on the desk.

"He's allergic to the nylon," Wilson interjected.

"Yeah. Everyone who tries to cut their ankle monitors off says they're allergic to them," Officer A said sarcastically. He'd have been better off biting his tongue. The other three officers exchanged glances, knowing that Officer A was out of line in saying that.

"I thought we were presumed innocent until proven guilty," House said, breaking the silence. "I'm allergic to the nylon. I didn't try to cut it off. I must have set the alarm off by scratching."

Officer B waved the two PPTH hospital security personnel off. "Thanks, but we don't need you. We're fine here." He waited until the security guards left.

"That's easy to take care of but we have to take you back to the jail to replace the strap," Officer B said.

"No way. I'm not going back there. Just leave me alone. I'll put something underneath it so it isn't in contact with my skin." House wasn't about to go back to jail even though Officer B had just told him all they needed to do was replace the strap. As much as Officer A hadn't believed him when he said he wasn't trying to cut it off, House didn't believe the officers either. For all he knew they would invent some reason to keep him there.

Officer B explained the situation calmly. "They have the supplies needed to replace the strap there. We can't do it in the field. Look, the monitor is still alarming. You're not under arrest and you're not going to be detained unless there's some other reason to detain you that we don't know about. If all they have to do is replace the strap, they can do that and let you go."

Wilson was still in the room with House and the two officers. All three of them exchanged glances because clearly House wasn't about to go back to jail. Wilson recognized that devious, cunning look in House's eye and moved to intervene before House could invent a reason to have to get up and leave his office.

"House, you always want evidence; you want facts. The fact is that you're allergic to it and the only thing to do is replace the strap. This is really no big deal. I'll follow along behind. We'll be done in time to grab some takeout from Hunan Yu."

A very long silence followed. Obviously the gears were flying in House's mind. He didn't want to go but had run out of reasons for not going. Rationally, he knew he had no choice. Emotionally it was quite a different story. The rational side won. He was ready to call it a day anyway; a day from hell. Actually, it could have been a lot worse, and he'd seen worse recently; but any day when he'd encountered cops in person twice, had to fire someone, and go to jail all on the same day qualified as a day from hell.

Grumbling a few mostly unintelligible words under his breath meant mostly for Wilson, he gathered his things into his backpack, climbed to his feet, and then a thought occurred to him. He needed to explain something first to the cops before he did the next thing that needed to be done.

"Don't call the DEA. I need an extra dose of Methadone. I have a prescription for it." House actually did have a copy of his prescription in his backpack, and produced the paperwork from the pain clinic for the officers.

Officer A wisely bit his tongue. Officer B volunteered to get him a cup of water. House dry swallowed the pill instead. He rolled his eyes, hauled his legs down off of the desk, took a few minutes to rub the kinks out of his right thigh and said, "Let's get on with it."

The train left the station with House in the lead. He just hoped the hospital gossip mongers, Cuddy especially, were in meetings or otherwise occupied so they wouldn't see the cops following him out of the hospital. At least he wasn't in handcuffs.

The train made it to the parking lot without garnering any undue attention. Wilson guessed privately that Cuddy must really be trying extra hard to hide from House. She would have found out by now that the police had been summoned. Any time police have to be called to a hospital, that particular hospital's administrator is usually high up on the list of people to be notified. Surely she must know the cops were here; she wouldn't necessarily know why they were here. The fact that she wasn't out in the hallways or in the emergency room trying to find out who the cops were here for suggested to Wilson that either she was too busy to find out or that she already knew the answer to that question. Either way, he was very glad she stayed out of the way.

In the parking lot, the patrol car was waiting right in front of the entrance. House was mortified, but decided to keep his trap shut. Thank God nobody of any significance was there to witness this. Wilson asked if he could ride along with House in the patrol car, and Officer A said that it was against departmental policy for non-suspects to ride along with them.

House couldn't bite his tongue anymore. "In case you've forgotten, and apparently you have, I'm not a suspect. I'm not guilty of anything. I'm going with you voluntarily to get the ankle monitor fixed and I expect not to be detained once I get there. Wilson, you can't ride with me. Who will drive us home if you ride along in this here paddy wagon?"

Wilson smiled a little. "Yeah, you're right, of course. I'll head home first and get the hang tag. Wouldn't want to park illegally at the jail, now would we?" he said in a weak attempt at some light hearted humor. It wasn't funny. Nobody laughed, and House shot him a look that indicated how upsetting that remark really was.

At first Wilson was puzzled as to why House would be obviously upset by his remark. It wasn't insulting, after all; it was a legitimate attempt to lighten up the mood a bit. If the shoe was on the other foot, House would think nothing of cracking a lighthearted joke like that. After House climbed in the patrol car and one of the officers closed the door, Wilson walked down the parking lot to his own car. About halfway to his car he realized why House was upset. _Jeez. Nothing's ever funny to a cop on the job. I said 'we'. They probably think we parked illegally. House probably thinks they have reason to suspect him of something now. Oh, God…_

Wilson's heart started pounding just a little harder on the way to Mercer County Jail, following closely behind the patrol car, thinking he'd have to do some damage control after he got there. Fortunately the cops didn't find it necessary to turn the siren on or the flashing lights. They drove as inconspicuously as possible to the jail.

Once they arrived at the jail, they had to part ways. Wilson was required to park in the visitor's parking lot, enter through the front door, and wait in the lobby. Police personnel with remands in the car were required to park in an enclosed, secure lot, and police personnel were required to enter through the secure door in the intake area. There was a sign over the door that all "remands" (a remand is anyone being escorted by the police) entering the intake area had to be handcuffed.

House saw the sign before the officers had a chance to explain to him that they weren't going to handcuff him. "I thought you weren't going to detain me!" he said firmly, keeping his voice just barely under a shout and struggling very hard internally to keep his cool.

"Relax. We're not going to cuff you unless you give us a reason to. Just don't give us a reason to," one of the officers replied.

"Sign says you have to. I don't want to be met at the door by Big Bubba in there with a pair of handcuffs."

"If you don't give us any reason to restrain you, we won't. Just walk quietly between the two of us and you'll be fine. We have to walk through the intake area. They'll pat you down and you'll go through a metal detector. You'll have to temporarily surrender your wallet, keys, money and any contraband which you'll get back when you leave. Assuming you pass inspection, we'll walk right through to the discharge area where they'll assume custody of you and take care of your ankle monitor. They're already waiting for you in there. No handcuffs unless you give them or us a reason to."

House agreed to get out of the car under their terms, and walked quietly between the two of them through the intake doors.

Jail personnel patted him down and he surrendered his pocket change, wallet, watch, keys and his Methadone. He'd suspected they'd make him surrender his Methadone which was the primary reason he took a dose before leaving the hospital. He had rarely had to take any top-off doses of Methadone since he started the Methadone protocol, but he didn't know how long they were going to keep him here and his leg was hurting anyway. If he missed his regular evening dose things would get bad quickly. He figured it would be better to be safe than sorry and take an extra dose before the pain got too bad. They let him keep his cane since he wasn't yet being detained for anything.

As he was being escorted through the intake area un-cuffed, House looked around at all the creepy inmates watching him. Everyone else was either handcuffed, in a cell, sitting in the chairs or else being interviewed by jail personnel. House was the only one not handcuffed who was just being escorted through intake on his way to another location. It seemed like every creepy inmate there had his or her eyes on House trying to figure out why he wasn't handcuffed or otherwise restrained. House wondered how many of the jail personnel in the intake area had been briefed as to why he was there.

As it turned out, it didn't matter. Nobody bothered him on his way through the intake area. They arrived in the discharge area a few moments later with no interruption. House was put in a holding cell in the discharge area which alarmed him greatly at first, but Officer B was nice about this unusual situation. Officer B explained that once he set foot in the jail, they had to relinquish custody of him to the Mercer County Department of Corrections. The only reason they didn't relinquish custody of him in the intake area was that the officers in the intake area didn't know why he was here and it would have taken that much longer to take care of business. That's why the Princeton police escorted him through intake and took him directly to the discharge area. He explained that the Mercer County DOC had already run a quick check on him and there was no reason to detain him, so all they were going to do was replace his ankle monitor and let him go; it just had to be done by the Mercer County DOC personnel in the discharge area.

So all House could do was wait in the holding cell in the discharge area. The cops had just left and he'd forgotten to ask them to update Wilson who was no doubt wringing his hands and pacing the floor in the waiting room.

Out in the waiting area, Wilson had the presence of mind to ask the desk sergeant what was taking so long.

"It's no big deal. They're backed up in the discharge area. Inmate House is being detained in a holding cell in the discharge area just until they have time to replace his monitor. After they replace his monitor, they'll call me and he'll be released."

Wilson figured, _Well, it could be worse. Obviously he's cooperating or the news wouldn't be so good. Hope he isn't freaking out._

"You won't wait, will you? You'll let me know the minute he's released? We didn't know he was going to be held in a cell," Wilson asked the sergeant.

"Soon as I know anything, I'll let you know too."

Meanwhile, back in the holding cell, it didn't take long before they got to House. About 30 minutes after he was put in the holding cell, two Mercer County DOC officers approached House's cell with a different ankle monitor.

The new ankle monitor was actually somewhat smaller than the unit he was currently wearing. The straps were plastic instead of nylon, but the plastic was so tough even an elephant couldn't break it. The strap was also a little bigger than the old one. No explanation was forthcoming from the officers as to any other differences between the new unit and the one he was currently wearing, so he figured he wasn't entitled to any explanation. They would just do what they had to do and let him go, and that was fine with him.

They took the old monitor off, put the new monitor on and let him go. That was that. He was in the discharge area holding cell a grand total of forty minutes. The only instruction he was given was that he needed to call the monitor company as soon as he got home to report in with the new unit. He was told that upon entering his front door, he had fifteen minutes to call the monitor company and report in

Jail personnel escorted him to the inventory desk where he was to pick up the things he'd surrendered when he came in. His phone had fifteen new pages on it; all of them were from his team. _Damn_. He'd forgotten to tell his team he'd be incommunicado for a while and that they should call Wilson in the meantime.

Wilson met him in the waiting area. Everyone was calm and thankfully, House didn't seem upset about being held in the cell.

"Anything new I should know?" Wilson asked House before they left the waiting area.

"Well, it isn't like they're going to tell me anything much anyway. All they told me was that the straps are plastic, not nylon, and I have to call the monitor company to report in with the new unit within fifteen minutes of entering my front door. Oh, and I have fifteen new pages, all from my team."

"Then I'll take you right home. While you're taking care of that I'll go pick up the food."

On the way home House checked his fifteen messages. The first few messages were short and polite from Chase. The next few sounded more like orders than messages, and they were from Foreman. The final three messages were from Thirteen expressing concern about House's whereabouts and if he was alright. Foreman's and Thirteen's messages were mostly asking if House was alright, so the only message of any concern to House was the first one from Chase with an update about Hairy Kid. "Call back ASAP. Hairy Kid had another seizure."

House called Chase back.

"So Hairy Kid had another seizure? Add it to the white board. I'm not coming back in today."

"He's actually had three more since I left my last message. You alright? Where are you? And where's Taub?" Chase asked.

"Yes to the first. None of your business to the second and third. Stabilize the kid with diazepam and phenytoin and I'll be in tomorrow morning."

Winding their way through the tiny one way streets in Princeton towards Baker Street, Wilson began to relax enough to enjoy the Christmas decorations. True, he was Jewish and didn't celebrate the religious part of the holiday, but still, the decorations were nice. There was a marked chill in the air, and the evening sky was white with snow in the clouds. No snow had fallen and none was predicted to fall, but this was the time of year for it and snow was evident in the clouds. A few neighbors were out hanging holiday decorations; they seemed to be in a convivial mood, obviously sharing something humorous with each other.

Wilson turned for a moment to gauge House's reaction to the holiday scene unfolding in their neighborhood. _Their_ neighborhood. That sounded wonderful.

House was pensive. Not _sad,_ not _depressed_ really. _Pensive_ was the best way to describe it.

"I'm going to the synagogue for Hannukah," Wilson said softly.

House turned on him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. "And?" he asked sharply.

"And I want you to go with me."

Two blue eyes bored into him even more intensely. House's jaw had dropped a few inches. "You're serious! Do you even still have a yarmulke? Won't it spontaneously combust the moment it comes into contact with your head?"

Wilson smiled and said, "We're home. And yes, I do have a yarmulke somewhere in a box or suitcase. I'm going and I want you to go with me."

They pulled up in front of House's building and House burst out laughing. "You're serious, aren't you! Hell yeah, I'll go! The entertainment value alone will be well worth it, especially when the cops burst in during Shema Yisrael to arrest me." House looked at Wilson with that crooked smile, that wickedly devious look. "You know I can't go with you but I sure as hell would like to, just for the fun of seeing that little beanie on your head burst into flames. Wonder what would happen if they doused you with holy water."

Wilson smacked his hand against his forehead. "Geez, I forgot. Seriously. I seriously forgot! I can't believe I forgot."

"Boy, I got a good show right here and now. You're really beating yourself up because you forgot that I have an anchor on my leg. This is fun!" House sat back in the passenger seat with a great big smile.

"I'm glad I'm such good entertainment. It isn't going to be so funny if the cops show up in the next few minutes because you wasted too much time out here in the car laughing at me. What'd he say about you only having fifteen minutes to call them after we get home this time? Get your ass in there." Wilson was smiling. It was wonderful seeing House in such high spirits; too bad it was so rare and too bad it never lasted.


	18. Chapter 18

Chase and Thirteen had been busy during the night with Hairy Kid. It was nothing they needed to page House about, and even if they had, he'd just call them idiots anyway. Hairy Kid had become agitated and began trying to pull out his IVs and everything else attached to him. It had become necessary to sedate him. His behavior was more and more unusual. He knew he was in a hospital and he knew it was getting close to Christmas. He knew his mother was sitting next to him, but his affect was completely flat and it was very odd that a child who was not autistic would not look to his mother for comfort. His mother seemed to be there more for her own comfort than her child's. She behaved like a mother would, attempting to comfort her child, but he turned away from her every time she offered comfort. In fact, her attempts at comforting him seemed to make the agitation worse. Chase made a mental note that he was going to pursue the autism route anyway even though House was convinced that the child was not autistic.

House woke up the next morning with a twinge in his thigh, but it was nowhere near as bad as his usual morning pain level when he was on Vicodin. He took his morning Methadone dose and realized with a start that his left ankle didn't itch. He did a double take to make sure the monitor was even still attached. His ankle looked normal. There was no swelling, no itching and no rash.

Wilson was still in the bedroom, sitting in the chair by House's bed and still in his pajamas when House woke up.

As soon as he was sure House was awake, he insisted on looking at the ankle with House.

"Relax. The swelling, rash, and itchiness are all gone. See? Stop worrying and get the coffee going, will ya? I'll be up as soon as the leg cooperates."

"Speaking of, how's the leg? How's the Methadone working? When's your next pain clinic appointment?" Wilson asked.

"Fine, fine, and tomorrow," House answered succinctly. "Now let me alone so I can get up in peace."

"Are you keeping a written log of your pain levels and medication times, like Dr. Huynh asked?" Wilson said as he retreated to the kitchen.

"Ask me one more question. Go ahead. See how quick I kick you out," House said with that good old sarcastic tinge to his voice. Just enough sarcasm to let Wilson know he'd had enough questions, but not enough to actually insult the man. Maybe he was learning how not to drive people away.

A few minutes later, the coffee grinder was in full swing. Wilson had bought a few bags of various flavors of whole coffee beans. He chose a Blue Mountain variety of Arabica this morning. He'd actually purchased the coffee some time ago in a specialty deli because the coffee was packaged in a blue bag and was labeled "Evening Blues" with a picture of a Gibson archtop guitar on it a lot like one of House's guitars.

House ambled out to the kitchen to see Wilson, still in his pajamas and rumpled hair, pouring coffee for both of them and fixing bagels and cream cheese for breakfast.

House, of course, zeroed in not on the image of Wilson still in his pajamas, but on the blue coffee package with the picture of the guitar on it. "Cute," he said with a sneer. "Where'd you get that? Some patient give it to you on their deathbed?"

With a totally fake hurt look on his face, Wilson wheeled around and shot back, "I got it for you, numbskull. It's actually really good Jamaican Blue Mountain Arabica coffee. The beans are really pricey and hard to get. Say something nice about it. You never know when I might spike yours with pepper."

"Better than what you usually spike mine with. Ok, ok, I'll try it." House took a big loud slurp from his cup. Blue Mountain Arabica is a top of the line variety of Arabica coffee and truly delicious if you like strong coffee. It comes from Jamaica and nowhere else in the world. It was marvelous. It was delectable and House could have come up with many more adjectives to describe exactly how good this coffee was.

If Wilson could fake being insulted, House could fake disgust. He twisted his face up and looked like he was about to execute a perfect spit take. "This is disgusting. Get rid of this crap. Get some Folger's."

When their eyes met, Wilson was smiling. The fake grimace didn't last long on House's face, either. "I was wondering how long it would take you to figure out I can fake disgust even better than you can fake being hurt. Seriously. This is delicious. I know what Blue Mountain Arabica tastes like. This is wonderful."

"Good timing on that compliment, 'cause I was about to throw your bagel in the trash."

They enjoyed a rather leisurely breakfast together. It was unusual for Wilson not to get dressed first. House just looked at Wilson, in his rumpled pajamas and bedhead, from the other side of the table and smiled that crooked smile of his. "I think I'm rubbing off on you," he cracked.

On their way in to work about half an hour later, Chase paged House stat. "Hairy Kid is having a heart attack. We need you."

As soon as they got to the hospital (this time with House's hang tag prominently displayed hanging from the rear view mirror), Wilson zipped right into House's parking spot. House wasted no time limping in to the hospital at top speed like Superman with a peg leg.

Hairy Kid was in the middle of a cardiac emergency. Foreman had just managed to shock the kid back into sinus rhythm. _What makes a five year old kid have a cardiac arrest?_ ran through House's mind. _We're not fixing him; we're killing him._

When the code was over with and Hairy Kid had a decent cardiac rhythm, House and his team made their way back to the diagnostics office. Everyone was quiet. Foreman, Chase and Thirteen were stunned. House slammed his backpack in anger down onto his office chair. From his inner office, he yelled "Well, what the hell happened? Why would a five year old kid have a cardiac arrest? What did we miss, people?"

Chase, Foreman and Thirteen just looked at each other. They'd run out of ideas, and they were looking at Taub's conspicuously empty chair.

House was pacing back and forth inside his office. He stopped pacing when his team didn't answer. He peeked through the opening into the outer office, at the sight of all three of his team members staring at him.

"I need answers, people! The kid is dying!"

"And we do too. Where is Taub?" Foreman asked, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.

House wasted no time shooting him down. "Making funeral arrangements for the kid. Give me some ideas if you don't want to be next on the train out of here."

Thirteen slammed her hands down on the table in shock. "You fired him?"

Foreman's sneer just grew wider. "I knew it."

Chase's jaw dropped. "What for?"

"None of your business. Go do your jobs."

House resumed angrily pacing in his office. His ongoing legal trouble, the aftermath of firing Taub, and the fact that his five year old patient was rapidly dying without a diagnosis were too much to deal with at the same time. He couldn't do anything about #1, and the reason #3 was happening so quickly probably had something to do with #2. His remaining team was now just distracted enough by Taub's termination that _that_ was utmost in their minds instead of what _should_ be. _I fired Taub at exactly the wrong time._

House's rage nearly boiled over again. He wasn't angry at his team so much as he was angry at himself. For about a minute he briefly fantasized about what he'd really like to do right now.

He would grab his cane like a baseball bat and swing viciously at anything within reach. The place would look like Hurricane Greg zeroed in on it. The sole survivors of his rage-filled, fantasy attack would be a few pieces of furniture, his beloved Sota turntable and his recordings. He would stand in the middle of all the destruction holding his cane aloft, like a supreme ruler celebrating victory after a hard-fought hand-to-hand battle.

House simply could not vent his rage constructively. It was either bottle it all in or let it explode by crashing through someone's house; only this time he was the target of his own rage. _How could I be so stupid as to fire Taub before the case was solved? How could I be so idiotic as to crash through a house and ruin my life? _

House's team had left to go about their business. He'd basically told all three of them to either do their jobs or go to hell. Not in those exact words, of course, but that was what he felt like telling them and that was what his body language told them. He'd taught his ducklings to read body language very, very well.

In the kid's room, Chase and Thirteen briefly re-examined Hairy Kid. They were no closer to a diagnosis than they were earlier this morning. Foreman had gone to the pathology lab to review the kid's biopsies and lab results. Chase called Foreman. They needed their mentor's help, no matter what state of mind he was in. They simply didn't want to go back to House with no ideas. House had taught them well. Bad ideas were always better than no ideas at all. Yeah, it mattered that he'd fired Taub, but the most important thing right now was saving the kid's life.

Chase, Foreman and Thirteen met in an unused exam room in the clinic. It was the one place they knew House wouldn't walk in on them. They didn't intend to stay there long. They just needed to reconnoiter and arm themselves again before walking back into what they were sure would be a battle in the diagnostics department.

"Ok, guys. I'm thinking genetic. We can't wait to test Dad and the other kiddies. This one's going to die before we can do the other stuff. We can't go back up there without ideas. Bad ones are better than none at all. What kind of genetic, hereditary conditions cause hirsutism in kids? Forget about the behavior. We know at least some of Dad's other kids have hirsutism. Let's focus on that," Thirteen stated authoritatively.

"Reubenstein-Taybi?" Chase suggested.

"Could be, but he's of average size. Reubenstein-Taybi kids are short. Let's write it down, though," Foreman said.

Thirteen pulled out her PDA and recorded RUBINSTEIN-TAYBI.

"Cushing's?" Foreman suggested.

"In a pre-pubescent five year old boy? Yeah, right. House'll shoot that down point blank. You know it's most common in young to middle aged women. It can happen in boys but it's most commonly due to an adrenal or pituitary tumor and we probably wouldn't see symptoms in a kid this young. Besides, with all the radiologic studies we've done on him so far, we'd have seen an adrenal or pit tumor. What about porphyria?" Foreman said.

"Possible, but I don't think we'd see that degree of hirsutism. Write it down, though," Chase replied.

Thirteen added PORPHYRIA.

"Alright, guys. We have porphyria and Rubinstein-Taybi. What about Achard-Thiers?" she said.

"You getting that from your online version of Taber's?" Foreman laughed. "Actually, that's a great idea. Keep throwing them out; but not Achard-Thiers. That only occurs in diabetic old ladies and it's not genetic. I'm thinking Cornelia De Lange."

Chase looked at both of them in shock.

"Oh my God. The only case of CdL I've ever seen was years ago in med school during my first pediatric rotation. That kid wasn't as hairy and didn't have any behavioral issues but oh my God, I can't believe I'd forgotten my only confirmed case of CdL had similar GI and cardiac issues. Write that down. I think that's what the kid has!" Chase crowed.

Thirteen added CDL, saved the document and flipped her PDA off. "We're ready. Let's go."

Meanwhile, House was in his inner office, standing in place with his cane gripped tightly in both hands like a bat. Rage was threatening to burst forth like a volcano. Like he'd done nearly all of his life, he thought his only choices were to tear the place to shreds or bottle his anger up completely. He couldn't afford any more legal trouble so he bottled it all up.

The sound of his team's approach jolted him out of his fantasy and caused him to drop his cane. As he bent over to retrieve the cane, his wallet popped out of his pocket and fell open to display the few small photographs he kept secretly. He rarely opened his wallet in front of anyone besides bartenders and hookers, so almost nobody had seen those photographs.

The photo was of his Oma, his maternal grandmother. She was Dutch. His eyes were glued to that photograph. Voila'. He stood up in awe, leaving his cane on the floor. He knew what was wrong with the kid. The kid had Cornelia De Lange.

Chase walked in to House's inner office first, followed closely behind by Foreman and Thirteen. All of them saw the same expression on House's face they'd seen hundreds of times before. He'd solved the case.

"Reubenstein-Taybi, Porphyria, or Cornelia De Lange. My money's on Cornelia De Lange," Chase chirped as Foreman stepped in and picked House's cane up from the floor.

"Wanna share your reasons with the rest of the class?" House cracked with an all-knowing smile.

"Cornelia De Lange was a Dutch pediatrician in the early twentieth century who was involved in the first case of this, and the syndrome is named after her. Kids with CdL have excessive hair growth, GI problems and, rarely, neurologic complications like seizures and autistic-like behavior. Cardiac arrest could be explained by electrolyte anomalies caused by the kid's vomiting. Fix the electrolyte problems, fix the vomiting, and he'll be fine. Kid needs to get caught up on vaccinations too. Daddy, Mommy, and all of Daddy's other kids need genetic testing for CdL. It's not curable; just manage the symptoms."

House added, "And the parents are idiots with God complexes, so you better call CPS too so they can follow up with the cult and make sure all the kids get appropriate follow up care. They're gonna need it. Good job, team."

The kid was diagnosed. They'd have to confirm it with genetic testing, but diagnosis is often made based solely on the symptoms. His team left to make the appropriate referrals. They would need to find a pediatrician experienced in the care of kids with CdL. House was confident that Chase could handle that.

The case was over but House felt empty inside. The satisfaction he felt, now that this case was concluded, was shallow.

He limped over to Wilson's office. This time he knocked instead of barging in like he usually did. Something else was wrong, and House had been trying to work up the courage to ask for help to fix it.

"Enter," Wilson said from behind the closed door. "Oh my God, I heard knocking, so I thought it was someone else," Wilson cracked when House opened the door.

House was uncharacteristically silent and unsure of himself. He had something to say and he wasn't sure how to say it; all he knew was it needed to be said.

Wilson immediately recognized the symptoms and said nothing, waiting for House.

House flopped down on Wilson's couch, dropped his cane and quietly placed his hands under the nape of his neck. He stared up at the ceiling. "I can't control myself, Wilson. The kid came so close to dying before they solved the case that I wanted to beat the shit out of all three of them; Thirteen included. The cane would have been the murder weapon. I damn near tore my own office up."

"What stopped you?"

"I don't want to go back to jail for the rest of my life. I'm 52 years old and I've already had several near death experiences. If they send me back to jail, the stress of it will kill me before I'm 53. I don't want to die and I'm tired of always having to pay the price for everything I do."

Wilson reclined back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. Anyone else would have said that they were terrified by the thought of wanting to beat people to death, and that they'd never actually do such a thing. Looking at House, he suspected that House thought that too, but why the hell couldn't the guy just come out and say that? The primary reason for wanting help with anger management shouldn't be fear of going back to jail; it should be fear of even thinking he was capable of such violence. To have so much hate bottled up inside that one would even think about destroying property, never mind beating people to death, should be more than enough impetus to seek help for anger management. And it had gone from thought to action in less than 30 seconds in front of Cuddy's house. But this was House; Wilson fully expected him to admit the former and not the latter.

"Thought about going back to Nolan?"

House harrumphed. "I need help with anger management, not scrambling my brains. I need a better suggestion than that."

Wilson turned around and started typing something into his internet browser on his computer. "Give me a minute," he said.

"Oh, so now you're telling all your online buddies what a fucking nutcase I really am? Like Lucas didn't already tell enough people two years ago?" House said with a sigh. This was exactly why he didn't like to let people see his inner self. Nobody could keep anything secret. He said that as though it was a foregone conclusion that Wilson or anyone else, for that matter, couldn't wait to spread secrets about him to complete strangers. After all, House loved to do exactly the same thing when it came to other people.

Wilson looked over with some empathy. "No, I'm not. I'm researching alternatives. If you were going to go to another psychiatrist you'd have started that process on your own, but I'm pulling up a list of them anyway. I also found some local anger management support groups."

House sighed again and kept staring at the ceiling. "Thanks for not lecturing me. You can stop typing, though. Support groups are even lower on the totem pole than psychiatrists. But I have to do something before the court decides for me."

Wilson turned his attention back to the computer screen. At least House stayed in Wilson's office. If he was serious about wanting help, Wilson would do his best to find something House was willing to try.

"I need Valium." House piped up from the couch.

"No you don't. From what I've found here, if you wait for the court to decide for you, they'll assign you to some online anger management thing that you just complete, get the certificate and it won't do you a bit of good. You need to talk to someone that you actually respect. That pool of prospects has to be pretty small. I can't tell you what to do, but once you decide what you want to do, I'll do whatever I can to help."

Wilson handed House the list of local psychiatrists he'd found on the internet. "Just don't give up, House. I need you in my life. Don't give up. Whatever you do, please get help."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N – this isn't really how I wanted to end this chapter, but I didn't want you all to have to wait too much longer for another update. The trial is coming up soon and I'm devoting most of my creative energy towards that whole epic saga.**

House resigned himself to what he knew he would need to do. He got up off the couch in Wilson's office and silently made his way back to his office.

_Anger Management. Yeah. _Alone in his office again, House googled the search phrase himself. Maybe an online anger management support group might actually work. That way he wouldn't actually have to talk to the people face to face. The drawback, of course, was that he could lie all he wanted to and nobody else would be any the wiser. The only person he'd have to answer to would be himself. He'd have proof of compliance with an anger management program for the court. Maybe he could score some brownie points with the judge for having voluntarily enrolled in and completed the program instead of having it mandated by the court.

But would it work? It had to be a lot more difficult to lie in an inpatient drug rehab program and he'd already done that once. Lying his way through an online anger management program was very tempting, and could be a walk in the park.

He checked out some of the programs Wilson had found online and he found some others. There were many online anger management programs available to residents of New Jersey, many of which offered a court-approved certificate upon completion of the program.

He would need to contact Sam about his upcoming court appearance. If the court would accept his choice of anger management programs, and he could complete it before his next court appearance, maybe he could be released from house arrest early. Those were two very big Ifs.

With his legs propped up on his desk, he closed his eyes and mulled over his options. He could try to work with a competent psychiatrist (competent being the operational word there), he could find an outpatient anger management program (not gonna happen) or he could complete an online anger management program. Option 1 would require too much research. He wouldn't have enough time before his next court date to find someone besides Nolan. Going back to Nolan was out of the question because it was tantamount in his mind to admitting defeat. Option 2 wasn't going to happen because the only idea he hated worse than going to a psychiatrist was blabbing platitudes in front of a bunch of strangers. He could easily lie to strangers. He'd done it a million times. In order to complete the program, he'd have to spend roughly 25 hours in front of the same strangers, and sooner or later even the dumbest of them would pick up on the fact that he was just telling them what he thought they wanted to hear; what he thought Cuddy's attorneys and the judge would want to hear. Option 3 was the least abhorrent of the three options, and the one that would represent the least amount of time wasted. He realized that it would be up to him to be honest and comply with the program requirements. _Yeah, that'll be good for a few laughs._ He knew he had to try.

They had no more cases. Chase was down in the clinic doing some of House's clinic hours. Thirteen was reviewing paperwork from cases that had been referred to them, considering which ones to accept. Foreman had disappeared, and this hadn't gone unnoticed.

Foreman hadn't said anything, but he didn't need to. House knew exactly where he was. It was no big surprise that Foreman had been gunning for a management position at PPTH for years, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that if Foreman had disappeared, he was actually in Cuddy's office.

Greg mulled over his opinion of Foreman. Considering the possibility that if his current legal trouble got any worse and he wound up serving jail time, someone would have to take over his department. God forbid if that were to happen, the logical choice would be Foreman. Foreman wasn't a bad guy. He was a great doctor who was eager to advance his medical career and climb the corporate ladder at the same time. He was young and he needed to learn the proper way to go about all of that without stepping all over the wrong people. House was the wrong person to step all over. House saw a lot of himself in Foreman and he didn't want Foreman to wind up like he did; fired from four hospitals and really only hanging on by a few bare threads at this one, and in serious legal trouble to boot. There's not a lot of call for brilliant doctors who can't get admitting privileges at any of the local hospitals.

Foreman's presence in Cuddy's office could not be good news for House. On the other hand, House had the upper hand. First of all, he hadn't done anything that would justify Foreman snitching on him; secondly, Cuddy wanted as much to do with House as he did with Cuddy, thereby pretty much guaranteeing that Cuddy wouldn't do anything detrimental to House regardless of what Foreman said.

As much as House proclaimed not to care what other people thought of him, he did care, and it bothered him a lot to think that Foreman was in Cuddy's office, no doubt talking about him. Even though he pretty much suspected Cuddy wouldn't do anything he needed to be concerned about, he had to put a stop to it. He pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed 4.

"What's up?" Foreman answered. He was sitting right in front of Cuddy's desk. Cuddy immediately recognized the caller on the other end of the line simply by Foreman's body language; she picked up her things and left the office silently.

"I need you now."

"Busy. What do you need, House?"

"I know where you are. You're not busy with anything important. I need you up here in the office now."

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Foreman huffed, "I'm on my way up now, House." Foreman clicked his phone off.

He wasted as much time as he possibly could on his way up to the fourth floor diagnostics office, but eventually he arrived at what he thought was going to be the scene of an epic showdown.

Foreman opened his mouth but before he could say anything, House rose from his chair and started in. "Ok, first of all, I don't care what you do when you're not on the clock. When you're on the clock, you follow chain of command like everyone else. You report to me and I report to Cuddy. That's it. I can't fire you for going over my head to Cuddy about whatever you just talked about, but I can damn sure make your life even more miserable than it already is."

Foreman's jaw dropped a few inches. His eyes were wide open. "I didn't! I swear!"

"Oh, for God's sake. Where the hell else would you be? Of course you were in her office. Don't worry. I haven't done anything wrong and it's not like she would share any of what you said with me anyway. But rest assured, I know where you were."

Foreman was silent a few moments. "Ok. You got me. I'm worried about you, House."

"No you're not."

"Ok, I'm not. You always survive everything unscathed anyway. But I am worried about this department." Foreman wasn't about to give an inch.

"No you're not," House affirmed.

"Yes, I am. Nobody wants to refer cases to a doctor in legal trouble, whose license might even get yanked as a result of this. You'll just keep sailing on like you always do. But if Chase, Thirteen and I don't have cases to work on, we don't have jobs here."

"You don't give a damn about me or this department. You care about yourself. If I was gone and it was some other asshole boss standing here, you'd act the same way and say the same things. We are who we are. You want to move up the ladder, and your problems have nothing to do with me. That's all you've ever wanted here. That's fine; you need to learn the right way to do it. I'm damn sure not the right one to teach you how to do that. Cuddy is. I don't object to your taking career lessons from her on your own time. I do object to your taking career lessons from her while you're on the clock in this department."

"You know what's not fair?" Foreman said as he prepared to leave for the day. He wasn't angry, and he wasn't trying to be confrontational. He just needed to say what was on his mind. "You're right about all of it, just like always. You and Cuddy are fighting a war, and Chase, Thirteen and I are caught in the middle. You're using us as a barrier so you don't have to face her at all. That's why you have Chase doing your clinic duty and that's why you have Thirteen reviewing all of your referrals. You don't want to have to face Cuddy and we are paying the price. Taub was just the first victim. I haven't done anything wrong either, House, and I haven't done anything that you can fire me for. I'm just telling you how it is. It's not fair to use us so that you can keep avoiding her."

House stared at him momentarily. He wasn't at a loss for words. He was, frankly, a little proud that Foreman stood up to him. "Life isn't fair," House said softly. "Why don't you knock off for the day and I'll see you tomorrow."

His suspicion about Foreman's presence in Cuddy's office was confirmed. House could do nothing but go home and trust that Cuddy, in her desire not to have to confront him about whatever they talked about, would keep her trap shut. _Trust. There's that ugly word again._

His leg was beginning to bother him a little. He had brought his breakthrough doses with him, but he was determined to try to hold off and wait until his regular evening Methadone was due, and take that at home after what he hoped would be a delicious dinner. Greg's stomach was really rumbling and he was in the mood for something really extravagant, like a Delmonico steak, twice baked potatoes, a good tossed salad and pecan pie for dessert. He actually wanted to cook the entire dinner as a nice surprise for Wilson, who had really knocked himself out and gone over and above to give House all the support he needed during this tough time. It was time to say thank you, and what better way to do that than by making a really nice dinner?

But real life smacked him in the ass again. It would be impossible to get the groceries for this really nice dinner and still manage to keep it a surprise when Wilson represented the most convenient way for Greg to get to and from the grocery store. Getting to and from the grocery store on the bus wasn't such a good idea with a cane and several bags of groceries. He could take the risk and go on his bike, but if he was stopped by the cops for any reason, he'd be back in the slammer for driving on a suspended driver's license. He'd have to go by cab, and these damn cab rides were really adding up. It was either go by cab or ruin the surprise for Wilson, and he was bound and determined to make Wilson's day.

Still reclined back in his Eames chair, with his long lanky frame draped all over the place, Greg flipped his cell phone open.

"Wilson? Yeah, hey. Listen, I'll get a cab home. I'm fine. You'll probably be home before I am but don't start dinner until I get home. See ya." He clicked his phone off.

Next call was to the cab company. "Need a cab at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Yeah, it's Greg House again."

He pulled out a piece of paper and made a grocery list. He hadn't made a grocery list in years. He felt like he was 13 again and back in his mom's kitchen helping her prepare for a shopping trip. Making the grocery list was one of his chores when he was a youngster, and doing it again brought up one of the few really good memories he'd had of his childhood. Helping his mom in the kitchen was a chore he was expected to do but it was also fun, and he looked forward to those times alone in the kitchen with his mom.

Greg actually hummed while he made the list for this evening's groceries.

4 Delmonico steaks

2 pounds baking potatoes

Sour cream

Butter

Chives

Baby spinach

Radicchio

Scallions

Green pepper

Croutons

Asiago cheese for grating

Store-made pecan pie

He'd go to Straub's. Straub's had the finest of everything. Their bakery, deli and butcher shop were second to none. A pecan pie made by the bakers at Straub's would be far better than anything he or James could possibly concoct. They were also one of the few remaining Mom and Pop grocery stores that still had a real butcher department; guaranteeing that all meat was freshly cut that very day.

Foreman had already gone home. Greg saw Thirteen in the outer office getting her things together to go home as well. Chase was still in the clinic, having just seen his last clinic patient; some guy with a pine cone stuck up his rear end. House called Chase to check up on "his" clinic hours. "How's my stand-in doing down there?"

"Fine. I saw ten patients and the most interesting one had a pine cone stuck up his ass. Thank God the damn thing hadn't opened up yet." House wrinkled his nose as Chase described the procedure necessary to lubricate the pine cone and extract it.

"I'm finishing up now. Ok if I go home then, Boss?"

"Yep; be sure to sign all ten charts so Cuddy doesn't have to come looking for me. See you tomorrow," Greg said as he flipped the phone off.

When the cab arrived at the designated spot about 40 feet from the entrance to the hospital, House was there waiting, and his stomach was grumbling louder and louder by the minute.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked as Greg climbed in. The cabbie knew Greg by now, and knew better than to ask him if he needed help. Better to just wait and give him time to get in by himself.

"Straub's market on Forsyth. Don't wait for me. I'll call you when I'm done," Greg said as the cab left the curb and the cabbie turned the meter on. Then he quickly flipped the meter off. "You know what? It's Christmastime and all that. You're a regular in my cab. The store's not far away. This ride's on the house. Consider it a Christmas gift to a frequent passenger; hell, consider it a bribe if you want."

House pulled out his wallet anyway. "I'm not going to have this on my conscience; not now. I take from everybody but I can't take money from a guy who depends on passengers for income."

The cabbie shot him a quick look in the rear view mirror. "Uh uh. Put the freakin' money away. Consider this a bribe. If I give you a free ride, maybe you'll keep calling my cab company all the time. Maybe I make out pretty well on payday because of you. Keep yer money. You can pay me for the return trip."

Off they went to the grocery store; House, the man who never paid for anything and had just been told not to pay this cabbie who undoubtedly made little money to begin with, and the cabbie, who knew a good passenger when he saw one and realized House would continue to be a regular, frequent passenger in his cab. It wouldn't hurt to pamper a rich doctor who needed cabs to get anywhere.


	20. Straub's

A/N - Meant to tell you all… This is to explain the reference to Staub's market in the last chapter. Straub's market here in St. Louis Missouri in the United States, is famous for their deli, bakery and butcher department. Straub's is a real Mom and Pop grocery store and it's a St. Louis landmark. They really do have the best deli, bakery and butcher shop in town. They're one of the few small family-owned grocery stores left, and certainly one of the few to have kept their own in-house bakery, deli and butcher. If you're ever in St. Louis, go to Straub's in the Central West End. Any cab driver knows where it is!


	21. Chapter 20

House Arrest chapter 20

**A/N – for the people who have questioned why I started calling him "Greg" occasionally, it was just to inject a little bit of a different perspective; that's all. Brighid45 is one of my favorite authors and she refers to him by his first name in her fics. Referring to someone by their first name shows more respect than referring to them by their last name, and I think it's fun once in awhile to show that he can give respect once in awhile as well as receive it from others. Straub's is the best grocery store in St. Louis and Schlafly beer is also the best beer in St. Louis. Beats Anheuser Busch any day.**

At Straub's, House reflected on how much fun he was having shopping for this surprise dinner for Wilson. He changed his plans at the last minute and bought the twice-baked potatoes at the deli, already cooked. That way all he'd have to do is heat them in the oven when the steaks were done. He'd called the store ahead of time while he was still in the cab, and had the butcher cut the steaks so that they were ready when he got there. All told, he was in the store about 15 minutes before the shock hit him full bore. The ankle monitor. He'd forgotten to call the monitor company. _Oh my god, I'm going to have a heart attack right here and now in front of all these strangers._ He hurried, as fast as his bad leg would allow, to find a place to sit down and make that damn phone call. With his kind of luck, House figured the cops were probably already on their way by now.

When the operator answered the phone, he explained where he was and that he'd forgotten to call them ahead of time. Grateful for the relative anonymity that a phone call represented, he was also glad that this operator had never spoken with him before. He just hoped and prayed that the guy wouldn't think he was lying; then he remembered that they verify his stated location with the GPS coordinates. Fortunately, they hadn't alerted the police yet and he was able to avoid a complete disaster. The operator reminded him that he was not in one of the approved locations, and that he had a limited period of time in which to get home.

He had been so grateful to the cabbie for the free ride that he told the cabbie to turn the meter on in the parking lot and wait for him; he'd pay the cabbie not only for the return trip but also for the wait time. That wisdom now saved him from another trip to the slammer, as the cab was already waiting for him and he'd be sure to be home before the monitor company got sick of his unauthorized trip and call the cops on him yet again.

They were home within ten minutes. He even offered to help House carry the bags inside when they got home. House gladly accepted the help and greased the cabbie's palm with a few more high-value greenbacks to show his thanks. Well, it was either to show his thanks or to bribe the cabbie; either way, the cabbie was more than happy to help.

They walked in to find Wilson ensconced on the couch, still in his work attire, sipping a beer; Schlafly Oatmeal Stout to be specific. It was a seasonal brew; made by a local brewer and only produced during the winter. The six o'clock evening news was on TV, but Wilson wasn't really watching it. He was listening to something obviously good on his iPod, and didn't hear House and the cab driver come in.

House and the cabbie tried to be as quiet as possible, which was difficult when both men carried paper grocery bags full of food, but Wilson wouldn't have heard anything anyway with his earbuds in and Old Crow Medicine Show playing "Fall on my knees" at top volume.

They made it into the kitchen without ruining the surprise for Wilson. One more high-dollar tip for the cabbie and the man started eagerly asking House when he would be needed next.

"Shh. This is all a surprise for the guy on the couch in there. Don't bother him. I'll probably need you again tomorrow; I'll call you when I do. Bye."

The man tiptoed out. House unwrapped, wiped the steaks, and got down some salt, pepper and paprika for seasoning. One of the many things his team didn't know about him was that he was already a good cook before he took those cooking lessons with Wilson. There was a reason he had expensive, good quality pots hanging from the hooks in his kitchen. He knew how to use them. He'd learned quite a bit in his mother's kitchen. He knew that Delmonico steaks, like most expensive cuts of meat, don't need much in the way of seasoning. Just a few sprinkles of salt, pepper and paprika on both sides would do the trick nicely. They also wouldn't need to broil long, so he set the table right after he popped the steaks under the broiler.

The potatoes were already cooked. All he needed to do was pop them in the microwave for a few minutes after the steaks were done. The only thing left to prepare was the salad and all he had to do was chop the scallions, chop the green pepper, grate the cheese and mix everything together. Over the years since his infarction, he'd stopped cooking very often because it usually meant being on his feet longer than he could tolerate. This dinner came together perfectly, though, and in less than 20 minutes House was yelling at Wilson to turn the iPod off and come to the table for dinner.

"I knew I smelled something good!" Wilson chirped. "Do I need to check it for poison first?" Then the reality of what House had just done dawned on him. "Oh my God! Was it worth you taking the risk of going back to jail? House, my God, they could have busted you right in the store!"

"Go get Sarah if you're worried about being poisoned. Speaking of, where the hell is she? What'd you do, give her back? Who's giving her her daily insulin fix while you're here? She'll eat anything, and she's lived long enough anyway. As far as the cops, I didn't even think about the damn monitor until I was already in the store. I called the monitoring company, and since we don't see any cops out there, I guess they didn't call the fuzz on me." House said with his trademark smirk.

"You wouldn't poison me anyway. Who would you steal lunch from every day?" Wilson retorted with a smile. "Nora has her. I think I'm going to let Nora keep her. Oh, by the way, Nora said to say hi. Seriously, this is really nice. I'm just sorry you had to take the risk of going back to jail over it. Whatever possessed you to do this?"

"I'm actually offended that you think I have to be possessed in order to do something nice for you. I am capable of being nice. I'm just very good at hiding it," House said with a big huff, putting on an air of being offended when in reality he knew Wilson was being complimentary.

"Well, let's dig in before it gets cold. Wow! Delmonico steaks, twice baked potatoes, and fresh salad! I'm flabbergasted. Where's the wine?" Wilson asked with a sneaky, devious smile. "Never mind. I know just what kind of libation we should have with this magnificent repast. You did the cooking. Let me fix the beverage." Wilson left for the kitchen with a purpose. He wasn't sure if House had any club or lemon lime soda since House routinely drank his liquor straight up, but sure enough, there was an old but still usable bottle of lemon lime soda in the fridge. He scrounged up the ingredients for a really good Sangria.

2 cups orange juice

2 tablespoons honey

Two oranges, peeled and sliced

1 cinnamon stick

A 1 liter bottle of lemon lime soda or ginger ale

2 liters of red wine. House's wine rack was well stocked, fortunately.

Mix the orange juice and honey together. Mix the lemon lime soda or ginger ale and the red wine together, and add the orange juice/honey mixture.

Use iced tea glasses. Put an orange slice in the bottom of each glass, pour the Sangria in, add a cinnamon stick for stirring, and top with another orange slice. If the ingredients were not cold to begin with, pour over ice cubes in the glass.

Easy and quick way to make a great Sangria. Wilson had it mixed in a few minutes and emerged from the kitchen with two tall glasses full of iced Sangria. It was an amazing complement for a nice steak dinner.

The men ate raptly, replete with slurping and chewing noises, typical of ravenous pigs. The meal was the best either of them had had in ages. House considered finishing his meal with a great big loud belch, but somehow or another it just didn't seem appropriate this time. He was having too much fun with the sight of Wilson enjoying his food.

He squelched the belch, and satisfied himself instead by staring and grinning at Wilson. House opened his mouth. Wilson thought he knew what was about to emanate from House's insides, and looked away quickly. When he didn't hear a belch, he looked back in House's direction. "You are so uncouth. That's what you are. Well, that amongst other things. Uncouth," Wilson said. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, patted his stomach and proclaimed, "But even people with no manners can cook well. You already knew how to cook before you took those cooking lessons with me. I knew it!" Wilson emphatically pounded his fist on House's antique operating table that served as a kitchen table. "Who the hell comes to a cooking lesson already knowing a trick to keep meat from burning?"

House bowed and shook his head pensively. The smile remained, but it softened a bit. A pleasant childhood memory came to mind. "One of a few chummy Mummy memories I have of my childhood is that of my mother teaching me to cook. Dad had her so scared of burning the food that one of the first things she taught me was how to brown meat without burning it. The vinegar wasn't necessary. I just did that to impress you. Who wants to eat meat brushed with vinegar?"

"You saved my ass that day. Thank God the instructor never tasted those perfectly browned meatballs." Wilson rose to begin doing the dishes.

"Now comes dessert. I get to have even more fun watching you do my dirty work," House quipped. "That was my master plan all along. I do the fun stuff and I get to sit back and watch you clean up the crap – oops, scraps – afterward. Brilliant!" House looked at Wilson from his seat at the table, with his chin in his hand and a great big smile, staring intently at Wilson with those piercing blue eyes.

"Speaking of dessert, I thought I saw pecan pie somewhere," Wilson said hurriedly. House's blue eyes spoke volumes, and it was pretty clear they weren't saying anything about pecan pie.

"Not the kind of dessert I want now," House said huskily.

Wilson's mind began to spin. _Oh yeah… _"We can't let this food dry on the plates. Give me a minute to wash these," Wilson said breathlessly.

"Actually, let's just watch some TV. Just come on; sit on the couch with me and watch TV. You know, quality guy time," House quipped. Actually, he really did want much more. He was still having trouble adjusting to the fact that Wilson wanted intimacy with him just as badly as he wanted it with Wilson. It wasn't so much the man-on-man thing that bothered him. Intimacy with anyone was still difficult, even though Wilson had certainly proven to him more and more recently that he could be trusted with intimate matters. To really be intimate with someone meant so much more than just getting bare with them. It meant baring one's soul. Having sex and being intimate were not necessarily one and the same, in House's mind.

House limped over to the sofa with a little smile on his face. He was perfectly happy to let Wilson do the dishes. He relished the thought that the nice thing he did for Wilson was recognized and appreciated for what it was – just a nice thing to do for someone he cared about. Actually, he could have cared less if Wilson did the dishes. He'd have done them himself the way he usually did dishes; in small batches. It was difficult for him to stand in one spot long enough to do dishes from a big dinner all at once; not that he ever cooked big dinners, but on the rare occasions he cooked more than a few courses for himself, he would do the dishes in small batches and take his time. If this thing with Wilson proved to be permanent, the next item to purchase for their home would have to be an automatic dishwasher.

The noises from the kitchen stopped. "Want anything from the kitchen before I shut the light off in there?" Wilson asked.

"It has a light?" House quipped. "No. The only thing I want from the kitchen is you, out here on the couch with me. Hurry up. Elf is on."

"And I'm sure it'll be on fifteen more times before the end of this week. I'll be out in a second," Wilson finished.

Wilson washed and dried his hands, deliberately taking his time. He was mildly disappointed, but not surprised, that dessert apparently didn't mean what he thought it meant. He needed a few extra moments to compose his thoughts and decide what to say if House should happen to bring the subject up more directly.

"I'll bring out two slices of the pecan pie," he said before leaving the kitchen. "At least you won't bother me once we get engrossed in this enthralling movie that I haven't seen fourteen times before. You know what James Caan does to me."

Wilson appeared in the living room and put two slices of that delicious pecan pie from Straub's, each on its own plate, on the coffee table. He'd put a generous dollop of whipped cream on each plate next to the pie, and even brought out two cups of hot decaf coffee to go along with the pie. It was a good dessert, but not the one Wilson thought House had in mind.

"Yeah, I have wet dreams about James Caan too," House said drolly.

Wilson plopped down next to House. House immediately put his feet up on the coffee table. The pie and the coffee were still sitting on the table. "Eww; that's so disgusting! There's food on the table!" Wilson exclaimed.

"Yeah, and there are feet and cups of coffee on the table too. So what?" House replied.

"So I'm not eating pie that you just put your dirty Nikes next to, that's what."

"I didn't want the pie in the first place. I told you all I wanted was you," House said honestly.

House thought he'd proven his point; he soon realized, too late, that he hadn't read Wilson well enough. This conversation wasn't over.

"Why do you want a relationship with me?" Wilson asked while staring straight ahead at the TV. Somehow or another, he wasn't sure he really wanted to hear the answer to that question, but he had to ask it anyway. It seemed to Wilson like it would be more comfortable to ask the question if he wasn't looking at House when he asked it.

"I mean, seriously. You say you want me here with you, and I want to be here too. I want to be with you. Every time I assume that you want it just as badly as I do, you try to push me away. I don't mean that you try to push me out of your life or anything like that. It's just that you say you want me, but you're not sure that you want ALL of me. I thought we'd moved past that. I'm not trying to rush into something that neither of us is ready for, but I want all of you, and I can finally say I'm ready."

House looked at Wilson with an air of resignation. "I can tell that you're not going to stop talking about this until I come up with some pithy, wise explanation. I'm not going to get to enjoy this movie in peace until I do that, correct? It's not enough to just enjoy your company. I have to bare my soul, right?"

Wilson was thankful he had taken the time earlier to compose what he thought was the best reply he could make.

"My reaction to your first question is yes, you can enjoy the movie in peace and give me an honest answer at the same time. As far as the second question, it's just nice knowing we can talk with each other beyond the stupid guy stuff we already talk about."

House took a deep breath and moved his gaze to his feet, still comfortably propped up on the coffee table between Wilson's pie and his own. Stupid guy stuff, as Wilson so aptly put it, was safe. Boobs and monster trucks, food and drink, poker and music. All of that constituted stupid guy stuff, and all of those topics were shallow-end-of-the-pool safe. Anything else was deep enough that he would have to tread water, and treading water was something he hadn't done in almost twenty years.

Until recently he would not dream of taking the risk. Guys don't talk like that. But maybe guys who want to be together the rest of their lives _do _talk like that. It was virgin territory, so to speak, for House. It was also time to break that ice and give it a try.

"I like safe stuff," House started off.

"And you think I'm safe? Remember when I stopped talking to you for three months? I've been through three wives. That hardly counts as safe," Wilson answered softly.

"You keep coming back. No matter what I do, you keep coming back. You're safe. You asked why I wanted a relationship with you, and I answered you. Now can we go back to the movie?"

Wilson chuckled softly.

"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but what's so funny?" House asked pointedly.

"I was just thinking I guess that's about as deep as you go," Wilson said, smiling.

"No, this is as deep as I go. I'm not telling you. I'm asking you to shut up while a grown man dressed in a green elf tunic and tights has a heart to heart talk on Santa Claus' lap and teaches us about the true meaning of Christmas."


	22. Chapter 21

House Arrest chapter 21

**A/N – Sorry for the long wait! I've been working on the next installment in this series, The Trial, and forgot this one still needs to be wrapped up! My bad. Another note; BB's Jazz Blues and Soups is a real establishment in St. Louis and they feature big name jazz and blues artists. It's a wonderful place in downtown St. Louis to enjoy fantastic Cajun food and great blues or jazz music. I needed to use a little artistic license to spice things up a bit, which is why I wrote about House not being able to navigate the steps. In reality, I believe that they are handicapped accessible.**

They spent another night just talking and not doing anything else. They were quite at ease with the way things were; at least for the time being. House and Wilson were both learning the lesson that sex didn't have to be used as bait to lure, coerce, or blackmail the other person into staying in the relationship. Just like every other male of any species on planet Earth, though, sex wasn't too far from either of their minds; a right hand came in handy to take care of that. They both knew that something more than that would come soon and when it did, it'd be wonderful.

They talked about Wilson's cases until House made it clear that the conversation needed to go another direction.

"I'm tired of talking about cancer kids. Your cancer medicine's all the same anyway. A hundred ways of killing cancer cells, accompanied by a lot of crying, hand holding, and puppy dog eyes. My trial is scheduled to start next week."

"Yeah, I know," Wilson commiserated with him, examining House's face closely in an attempt to read his partner's emotions carefully. This topic could be a huge land mine.

House returned the look, and smiled. "Relax. I'm not going to blow up. I can't wait to face my enemy. You know the prosecuting attorney is named Henson? Hmm. Henson and Cuddy. Think I'll call them Huddy." That earned a guffaw from both men.

"I'm sure she thinks I'm a damn pushover. She probably thinks she has the law on her side. All I want is a chance to stand up for myself. Yeah, I'm guilty, but I never tried to hurt anyone and they're trying to prove I'm a sadistic murderous SOB. I'm out to prove I'm just an impulsive idiot who had no intention of hurting anyone except myself."

There was an oddly reassuring silence between the two men. House wasn't expecting a reply from Wilson since he hadn't posed a question. He'd simply voiced his opinion, and it didn't need a reply. Wilson, in his silence, acknowledged House's opinion and realized that was all that was needed.

"I'm already taking the week off from work anyway. I finally got all my department head duties handed off to the next department head. I'm free! Running that damn department helped ruin three marriages. No more!" Wilson said with a smile that conveyed the certainty that he was finally on the road to fixing some of what was wrong in his life.

House looked at him with thinly disguised pride. That little crooked smile of his spoke a thousand words, but just to make sure Wilson understood the intended thought, he winked and added, "You go, dude!"

"Yeah, I'm free next week. I already arranged coverage for my patients. You know Cuddy's still avoiding me like the plague, right? Part of my resignation as department head is that I have to give up the office. I'm taking a week off for the trial; more if we need it. When I come back, I just have my practice to run. No more department head stuff. Yahoo!" Wilson crowed. "She's giving me a smaller office on the same floor, though. Small concession to make in return for the huge benefit of not having that department to worry about anymore," he added.

"You mean I can't tap out Morse code messages to you on the wall anymore?" House said with a fake look of alarm. "What am I going to do with my day?"

"Text me every fifteen minutes like you usually do," Wilson retorted.

"Yeah, like I have time to play games. Some of us still have to work for a living, even if it's at a dump where our boss thinks I'm an evil murderer and you're pathological just because you're with me," House cracked.

"You know the nice thing about not being a department head anymore?" Wilson said, smiling. House was already sure what Wilson was going to say, but it was fun hearing him say it anyway. "What's that?" House replied innocently.

"Department heads here have to report to her. I'm now just a regular old doc in private practice. I report to myself. I'm officially Cuddy-free!" Wilson said with a grin. "See how green the grass is over on this side of the fence, House? I know how much you love the power as well as the puzzles, but don't you think it would be so much easier on you if you'd just resign that damn department head position, and open your own private practice? Hell, just the promise of no clinic duty should be enough to convince you it's time."

House was a bit stung by Wilson's comment. House hadn't actually been free to run his own department since Cuddy hired him. He was department head, yes, but really it was in name only. He signed the paychecks and diagnosed the cases, but Cuddy interfered so much in every move he made that it really might as well be her name on his office door.

To be in private practice would be a dream come true, but yet again he could see that real life would slap him down one more time if he tried to go that route. He'd longed for some time to do exactly what Wilson had done. To have a successful private practice, especially in a specialized field, he'd have to rely on referrals from other doctors. Wilson loved everybody and had sucked up to so many other doctors over the years that they all loved him in return. They beat down the doors to refer cancer patients to Wilson.

House, on the other hand, had probably burned too many bridges and alienated too many other doctors to expect any of them to refer him enough patients to keep a private practice thriving. The referrals that came in to the Department of Diagnostics at PPTH came in mostly to the _Department of Diagnostics,_ not to _Gregory House_ specifically. It was a bonus for the hospital that his name was affiliated with that department, and there were cases that were sent to him just because he was who he was. For the most part, though, when cases arrived in their department, House played the puppeteer, running through the diagnostic process behind the scenes. Actually, it was a great arrangement for everyone involved. The patient got the benefit of House's (and his team's) expertise, House didn't actually have to see the patient unless it was unavoidable, and the patients' referring doctors didn't have to deal with House either, because he had his ducklings running interference for him. That was a win-win for everyone involved. Private practice, on the other hand, meant no ducklings to run interference for him with other doctors and the patients' families. House would either have to fix those burned bridges by sucking up to some people at lightning speed, or else realize that private practice just wasn't in the cards for him.

He was, in part, happy (yes, _happy_) for Wilson and at the same time, jealous that the same opportunity probably wasn't in the cards for him too. He _did_ love the power as well as the puzzles, but Wilson was right. He was an idiot to think that he really had the power to run his own department. If he was the puppeteer, then Cuddy was the theater owner who dictated what her star puppeteer could say and do.

But enough of that for now. He wasn't about to change jobs voluntarily until this legal mess was over with. One disaster at a time was enough.

So the alarm clock went off at 8 am. House watched Wilson pop out of bed with the energy of a cat confined to a pen for too long. Here it was so many years after the infarction that he could barely remember what it was like to move with ease and grace; and yet every time he saw someone jump out of a chair, run down an aisle, or hop out of bed, he couldn't suppress that little bit of jealousy that always wanted to come to the surface. He didn't have to say anything. His look said everything.

Wilson could read it too, but it was something he'd read in House's body language so many times over the years that it didn't warrant a reaction. They looked at each other and silently went about their business; Wilson showered first, giving House the privacy and time he needed to safely get out of bed.

It was Friday. Wilson had patient appointments and House, no doubt, would have a fresh batch of diagnostics referrals to go through. With the trial coming up, Wilson realized this would probably be the last relatively normal Friday they'd have in awhile; he'd plan something really special for tonight or Saturday to return the nice gesture House had done for him.

House opted for a ride in with Wilson rather than taking a cab. House fiddled with the radio stations in Wilson's car, finally settling on a satellite radio blues channel, where Mississippi John Hurt could be heard playing a Leadbelly set.

By the time they arrived at PPTH, the windows had been rolled down and they were belting out "Goodnight Irene" at the top of their lungs, although Wilson changed the word "Irene" and started singing "Goodnight Cuddy" instead. Thank God he would finally be free of her incessant need to meddle. Today was his last official day under her thumb. He had seen that longing, somewhat wistful, regret-filled look in House's face earlier when he was crowing about having resigned as department head, and realized what it meant. It meant that House thought he no longer had that opportunity available for himself.

Maybe, after the trial was over with, Wilson would help House figure out a way to make that opportunity viable for him as well. If it meant helping House get out from under Cuddy's talons, it was worth all the trouble.

In the meantime, he intended on putting together a hot time in the old town for them both, and a perfect idea was beginning to come together…

A few hours after their workday had started, Wilson popped his head into House's inner office. House was in the middle of typing his fourteenth text message to Wilson. "What!" House shouted out in an irritated fashion. "You've stopped answering text messages?"

"I've stopped answering meaningless ones. And before you ask, no, I didn't hear your Morse code messages either. I haven't been in my old office all morning. I've started seeing patients in the new tiny little office she's given me. Actually, it isn't all that bad. No room for a couch in it, though. But that's not why I'm here. I got a question for you. Ever been to BB's Jazz, Blues and Soups?"

Intrigued, House replied "Yeah, a long time ago when I could still walk normally. I can't get up the front steps anymore. They have a lot of good blues bands there. Why? You gonna torture me by telling me some good band is playing there this weekend, but I can't see them because I can't get up the front steps?"

"No, idiot! I asked if you had been to the place. You answered me. That's all I wanted to know!" Wilson said with a furtive, almost guilt-ridden look, right before he darted back out the door again.

Alone in his tiny, cramped office, Wilson was beaming like a five year old on Christmas Day. He figured House would be consumed by curiosity right about now, trying to figure out what Wilson was up to. _Let him stew,_ Wilson thought. _He'll find out tomorrow night. In the meantime, he can stew all he wants._

Wilson had heard that Dr. John was playing this weekend at a larger venue a few miles away. That alone would have been a night to remember, but the venue Dr. John was playing at didn't have a restaurant. Actually, they technically did, but the venue was an old theater that was being remodeled. The theater part of the building was finished, but the smaller part that was going to be transformed into a restaurant wasn't finished yet. Wilson wanted to treat House to a great dinner just as House had done for him. Wilson also knew that House idolized Dr. John. A nice dinner with House at the Dr. John concert would be an evening for the ages as far as Wilson was concerned; he just needed to make the food and the music come together at the same time. That part was simple. The difficult part would be to keep House's nose out of his business long enough to keep everything a surprise.

The concert had long been sold out. Wilson, however, had brown nosed enough people over the years that he had no trouble calling in a favor and procuring two front row seats. Yet another benefit of being good at sucking up to people.

All he had to do was take care of the food.

But House would not leave him alone long enough to do that. He no sooner had placed that call to the restaurant than House showed up in his new office, unannounced as usual.

"I'm on the phone," Wilson said, looking up at House.

"I see. I hate Cajun food," House replied.

"No you don't. Go away," Wilson said in the most authoritative voice he could muster.

"I said I'd been to BB's Jazz, Blues and Soups. Didn't say I liked their food."

"True," Wilson retorted. "But as someone may have just said, I'm on the phone, no you don't, and go away."

House stayed put. When someone from the restaurant answered Wilson's call, Wilson thought quickly. "Hello, MC Department of Corrections? Yeah, I'm a doctor over here at PPTH. We have a tall thin guy in our ER with one of your ankle bracelets on. Gregory House, he says his name is. That one of your perps?"

A 2-inch diameter wooden cane suddenly came into hard contact with Wilson's cell phone, sending it flying out the door and across the hall. Mercifully, he'd managed to avoid hitting Wilson's hand.

Wilson laughed devilishly. "That'll teach you to meddle in my business. Go away!"

House wheeled around in a huff, trying to retrieve Wilson's phone from the hallway before Wilson got to it. Wilson, not surprisingly, beat him to the phone.

"Uh uh. You'll find out what's going on soon enough. In the meantime, you're just going to have to stew. Go away!" Wilson said, smiling that devilish smile again.

"How long have you known me?" House cracked.

Wilson got up, urged House out of his office, closed and locked the door. "Go away."

He waited a few minutes for the sound of retreating footsteps and cane thumps. When he didn't hear any noise, Wilson called the hospital operator. "Page Dr. House stat to the operating room," he said softly.

"Dr. House, Dr. Gregory House, please report stat to the operating room," came the overhead page a few minutes later.

No noise could be heard from outside Wilson's closed door. No doubt House was still there, trying to outwait Wilson.

Five minutes later the page was repeated.

"Dr. House, Dr. Gregory House, please report stat to the operating room."

"Fine!" House yelled from the other side of Wilson's closed and locked office door. "Have it your way. Plot whatever evil you're up to. But don't think I won't find out about it." The familiar step-thump could be heard retreating down the hallway.

Wilson smiled.

Fortunately his now slightly battered cell phone still worked. He called BB's Jazz, Blues and Soups.

"I need to place an order for delivery, but I need it delivered tomorrow at 7 pm to the Pageant Theater. How should I go about placing the order? Can I call it in now or should I call it in tomorrow? Will you deliver to a theater?"

The manager handled his questions. "We can deliver anywhere you want but most theaters won't let our delivery personnel in with food. We would deliver outside the theater. I should add that most theaters won't allow anyone to carry food inside, but that'll be up to you to handle. If you need it delivered at 7 pm, call us about 6 pm tomorrow and place the order then."

Wilson replied, "Thank you. This is for the Dr. John concert at the Pageant tomorrow."

The manager answered, "Dr. John is playing an after-concert set right here. It isn't the full concert set list and of course there's a cover charge. He'll start playing here at about midnight tomorrow. Table seating is by reservation only and we do have a few reservations left. Is that something you're interested in?"

"Damn sure, I am!" Wilson crowed into the phone. "I need a reservation for two at midnight, as close as we can get to the stage. My dining companion is disabled." Yes, Wilson played the disabled card. There were times even House played it, because it came in very handy. One of those times was when they were trying to get a choice table at a popular restaurant. When they played the disabled card, House and Wilson generally got prime seating anywhere they wanted.

"Wonderful! There are steps up to the front door, so we allow disabled guests to use the back door where there are no steps. It's also closer to the stage. Just to confirm, you're making a dinner reservation for two for a table in the bar area close to the stage, at midnight tomorrow. Is that correct?"

Wilson thought he was going to faint. "Yes."

"Wonderful! It's confirmed, and we'll see you both at midnight tomorrow."

Wilson clicked the phone off, got up and opened his door. No House. Good.

Then Chase rounded the corner quickly.

"I've been sent to spy on you," he announced, somewhat out of breath.

"And you're telling me this because you don't want to do it," Wilson finished the thought out loud.

"No. I'm telling you this because House paid me two hundred bucks to spy on you and I don't have time for all this foolishness. It's Friday and I have plans too. Tell me something so I can tell him and get my money and go home," Chase deadpanned.

"House and I are living together. I bought us a waterbed. It's being delivered tonight. I had to set up a delivery time. After they're done we're going to have hot, nasty, wild sex together in it all weekend," Wilson deadpanned in return.

Chase's jaw dropped.

"What? You wanted something. I told you. Now go. I got work to do," Wilson said.

It was difficult to tell whether or not Chase believed him, but he needed to deal with the spies House would no doubt send his way, and his startling but fake announcement had its intended effect. Wilson grinned after Chase wheeled around and sped out of his office as fast as he could.

Mission accomplished. The surprise was set up, and neither House nor his spy knew anything.


	23. Chapter 22

**A/N – I apologize for the lengthy delay in updating this story, but we have a very long chapter here and it's also the end of the current story in this series. "Leland Payson" is a fake name for a real acoustic blues musician here in St. Louis who has influenced a lot of local talent here including myself.**

**Regarding the part about Wilson resigning as department head, I did put that in an earlier chapter but then I edited that chapter and accidentally left out that part when I uploaded what I thought was the final edit. Sorry about that; I'm an amateur author and I still have things to learn about editing stories and about continuity. **

Wilson had long been thinking of resigning as department head. The primary reason for wanting to do so had nothing to do with House.

For years Wilson had been so focused on his career, and even more so, his patients, that his personal life took a back seat. It's never easy to be married to a physician, especially one with a busy practice full of very sick patients. When that same physician is also head of a department at a teaching hospital, the job-related commitments increase tenfold and the family commitments sometimes suffer. In a perfect world, the couple works through this and strengthens their marriage and their commitment to each other. Sometimes, though, things just go south and neither partner invests the time and energy necessary to see their marriage through the rough times.

At this stage in his life, Wilson was tired of relationships breaking up; tired of coming home to an empty house, or worse yet, to a home that wasn't quite empty yet because the spouse hadn't yet finished moving out. He also realized he was tired of blaming himself for everything that happened to his previous marriages, and even though their demise was partly his fault he was tired of living in the past all the time and wishing things had been different.

He had a fresh opportunity with House. Actually, it wasn't a "fresh" opportunity. "Fresh" implies "new," and the opportunity with House wasn't new. It had been there all along. Both parties had been so intent on proving that things were ok in their relationships all along that they each worked right next door to the person they were meant to be with.

The dinner and Dr. John concert this weekend with House were going to be perfect. Wilson rubbed his hands together in anticipation until he suddenly realized House's ankle monitor might represent a problem, to put it mildly.

House was allowed to be in his home, at his place of employment, at the Mercer County Pain Clinic, at his legal appointments, and in transit between his home and any of those other places. He was allowed to get gasoline and go grocery shopping, but not without calling the monitor company first. He was not allowed to go anywhere else or do anything else. Wilson had become so accustomed to House's ankle monitor in such a short period of time that he hadn't even thought of that ahead of time.

Now he had two tickets to the Dr. John after-concert show and a reservation for two for dinner, and no way to get House there without violating his house arrest. The monitor company would never allow him to go to that show, phone call or no phone call.

Time for the trickery, Wilson style, to continue.

Back in his tiny, cramped office, Wilson double checked to make certain that the door was locked. House, no doubt, was grilling Chase, so this next pack of lies would have to be handled very, very carefully. He wasn't thankful for much in this tiny little closet of an office, but a nice perk was that the office only had one door and no windows. Sneaky bastards could not raise a window or slip in unannounced through the back door. There _was_ a minor chance that the office might be bugged; actually, no, it wasn't a _minor _chance. It was a major possibility. House had bugged patient rooms numerous times before, so it was well within the realm of possibilities that his new office was bugged as well. There was one way of dealing with that.

Wilson needed to call Chase; texting was out of the question since House would see the message.

Out came the IPod. Out came the speakers. He plugged the speakers into the IPod, flipped the IPod on, selected AC/DC's Highway to Hell, and blasted it full volume.

Then he called Chase. He knew Chase wouldn't be able to hear him; neither would anyone else. He hoped that Chase would get a clue and call him back.

Sure as shooting, Chase called him back a few minutes later.

"Can you hear me now?" Wilson asked, smiling. He'd turned the volume way down on his IPod, but the song was still playing; he had it all ready to go in case it became apparent that House might be listening.

"Yeah. You're not screaming about going to hell anymore. What's up?" Chase asked with suspicion. "Because you don't call me unless you have something up your sleeve."

"Where's House?"

"I have no idea," Chase replied, somewhat exasperated. He'd already been asked to spy on Wilson for House and had come up empty handed once before.

"So he paid you $200 and all you came back with was a pack of lies. Wanna make $400?"

"What do I have to do?" Chase said. Not "Sure," or "What happens if I say no," or anything else. Since he'd been paid $200 for _bad_ intel, it went without question that he'd take $400 for _good_ intel. He knew Chase would do it. It was just a matter of making sure he knew Chase would do it correctly and keep everything on the down low, so to speak.

"Gotta keep this on the down low," Wilson whispered into the phone.

"Really? Seriously, Wilson? Everybody already knows," Chase replied.

"Oh, shut up. That's not what I'm talking about. You're going on a secret, clandestine operation for me."

"Why should I believe that I'll get good intel this time?"

"Because I'm paying you twice what House paid you, and unlike House, I don't pay for garbage. You in?" Wilson said, smiling that all-knowing smile. Of course Chase was in.

"I'm all ears."

"Good. Before House catches you on the phone, hang up and come to my office. Get here now."

The knock on his door came a few minutes later. Wilson called Chase again. "Make sure you're alone. Make sure House isn't laying in wait around a corner somewhere close," Wilson said on the phone.

A few minutes later, Wilson got up and cracked the door open a little. Once he was sure House wasn't spying nearby, he let Chase in quickly and locked the door behind him.

Wilson handed Chase the two tickets to the Dr. John after-show at BB's. Chase's eyes popped wide open. "Thanks! Wow, this is so cool!"

"Stop drooling, junior. The tickets are part of the operation. You'll need these to get in the door. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to take these tickets, take my laptop, call your choice of a date, and go to BB's Jazz Blues and Soups tomorrow night before the show. For the night, you have to play disabled. Go to the PT department and grab a cane. You'll limp in through the back door where they're expecting a disabled customer and his friend. Tell them you're me. The reservation is in my name. They don't know who the disabled one is; they just know that the reservation is in the name of Wilson, that there are two people coming, and that one of them is disabled. Once you're seated at the table, you'll open my laptop, launch Skype, aim the webcam at Dr. John, and shut up for the duration of the show. You get paid after I get my laptop back undamaged. Got it?"

"Let me see. I get two prime tickets to see Dr. John, and I get $400 for just setting up a laptop and enjoying the show? Of course I got it," Chase said, rubbing his hands in eager anticipation.

"House can't know a word of this. If he even suspects anything, I'll know; I'll call you in two seconds flat and call the whole thing off. Not a word," Wilson warned him sternly. "I mean it."

"I'm on it, mister!" Chase assured him.

"Fine. I can't give you my laptop now or he'll see you carrying it around and know something's up. I bet he's still looking for his backpack, but you never know when he'll pop up somewhere. I'll be taking him home at 3 pm sharp. Call me at 3:30 pm; tell me where you are. I'll bring you my laptop then."

Chase left Wilson's office on a mission, trying to suppress a smile in case House showed up somewhere along the way.

Meanwhile, House had been observed by several nurses, sneaking all over the hospital. He was looking for his backpack.

First, of course, he checked out Wilson's old office. The place was deserted and, for a moment, it broke his heart. After he looked under the desk and found nothing, House had to take a moment to look around at the bare walls. The place wasn't the same without the Alfred Hitchcock posters; even though he knew Wilson was just down the hall, it wasn't the same not having him right next door.

Then he searched the doctor's locker room. He wouldn't have put it beyond Chase or Wilson to hide his backpack in the locker room somewhere.

Then he searched the men's room. Taub could have thrown it behind one of the toilets, but it wasn't to be found there either.

Last on his list was the roof. He hadn't been up there in years; not since Stacy left the last time. By the time he made it up to the roof, he was limping heavily even with the support of his cane. He was certain someone was playing a trick on him and he was bound and determined to retaliate, but first he had to find his backpack so he could go home and start plotting his revenge. He could simply have asked his ducklings, but since everybody lies, their answers wouldn't have been helpful anyway. Body language, yes. Verbal answers, no.

He searched high and low; behind the air conditioning units, behind the vents, and anywhere else that was safe to step on.

No luck.

He grew angrier and angrier by the minute; not to mention the fact that his leg's whispers of pain had grown into full blown shouts.

He flopped down in one of his old resting spots on the roof and almost lost his balance. Totally exasperated, he pulled out his cell phone and texted Wilson.

'I give up. Where is it' he texted.

His phone beeped a few seconds later with the reply.

'No idea what ur talking about – W'

House angrily called Wilson. "If you don't want me to trash your other stupid framed Hitchcock posters, find my backpack for me. Seriously."

"No idea where it is," Wilson replied. Then he had a slight change of heart. Obviously House had given up on the search; otherwise he never would have called Wilson or anyone else asking about his backpack.

"I have no idea where it is, but Chase might," Wilson replied again. He felt badly about hurting House by making him go on a wild goose chase looking for something he would never find on his own, but then again, it was the only way Wilson had of getting enough private time to make all the arrangements and keep them secret from House. Now that his work was done, it was Chase's turn to reveal where he'd hidden the backpack.

"Yeah, like he's even still here," House grumbled into the phone. "He's probably home with yet another girl du jour."

"He's here. He knows where it is. I don't. Now quit bothering me and call Chase," Wilson said lightheartedly. "I'll meet you down by the car after you get your backpack."

Not two seconds later, Wilson called Chase. Chase was happily scoping out a pretty new nurse in the clinic. "Time for the next step. Meet me at my car right now with House's backpack. I'll give you my laptop. House is still making his way down from the roof so we have a few more minutes before he gets to my office. Go." Wilson clicked his phone off.

Chase reluctantly turned his attention away from the gorgeous new nurse in the clinic and went to the exam room where he'd hidden House's backpack. Fortunately nobody was in there, since he barged through the closed door without knocking first. He hadn't gotten the new nurse's phone number yet, and Wilson called at exactly the wrong time. He hoped that earning $400 and tickets to see Dr. John was worth not getting this nurse's phone number.

As it turned out, he didn't miss anything. He nicked the backpack out from its hiding place in one of the cabinets. As Chase made his way out to the doctor's parking lot anxiously looking around so as to be sure to avoid House, the new nurse slipped a piece of paper containing her phone number into his back pocket. She made sure to get a good feel at the same time. Chase smiled brightly. _Oh yeah,_ he thought. _It's going to be an amazing weekend!_

Chase saw Wilson's Volvo and, before long, the familiar mop of brown hair on the other side of the car.

"Were you seen or followed?" Wilson asked nervously. Chase quickly exchanged House's backpack for Wilson's laptop.

"Just by that new nurse in the clinic, Jennifer."

"Great. One more person for House to grill. Hopefully you told her nothing. Call House now. Tell him you have his backpack and you gave it to me. Tell him I'm at the car, ready to go home. He'll be here as fast as one good leg can get him here, which is pretty fast, so after you call him leave immediately."

Wilson waited a few moments while Chase called House. Actually, while Chase and Wilson were having their conversation, House had called Chase several times and left several voice mail messages; each one angrier than the last. Chase was ready for the barrage when it came.

"Listen, you little twerp! Idiot! Stupid idiot! Asinine, stupid idiot! I'm not nearly done going through the list of names I want to call you right now. You wanna see your precious surf board again? 'Cause I have a key to your place, not that it would matter. I want my backpack in my office, unharmed and unopened, NOW."

Chase took a deep breath and silently thanked God that House couldn't see him smiling now. House had never seen through any of his lies before, and he was hoping that since House couldn't see his body language, he'd get by with a lie now. "Relax, House. I found it. I didn't hide it. You must have left it in the clinic. I just gave it to Wilson because I'm leaving now. Wilson has it and he said for you to meet him at his car."

"Now I know you're lying. I didn't leave it in the clinic because I haven't been in the clinic. I might just add something else to the list of your things I'm planning on selling on the black market. Wonder how much I'd get on Craigslist for a beautiful Australian-made surf board?"

Wilson grabbed Chase's phone. "He's telling the truth, House. He found your backpack in Exam Room Two in the clinic. He gave it to me. Chill out and just come on down to the car. I have it and we need to get going."

"Alright, I'm on my way. Now I know you're both lying."

Chase, with a death grip on Wilson's laptop, made a mad dash for his car so as to be completely gone by the time House got down there.

Wilson stood by the Volvo with a "told you so" grin on his face, facing the direction he knew House would be coming from.

Five minutes later, House limped out of the elevator door at the garage level, down to Wilson's car, huffing the whole way. Of course he'd spotted Wilson the moment he stepped off of the elevator in the garage.

Wilson spotted House at about the same time, and held the backpack aloft as if it were a prize. He admired (not for the first time) House's lithe, fit body. Regardless of the disability, there was no question that the man was in good shape physically. Since the types of physical exercise he could perform were rather limited, Wilson figured that House was in such good shape just from limping at top speed everywhere he went.

"Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. My leg says it didn't have any fun on that wild goose chase you sent me on." Judging from the pained look on House's face and the way he was frantically massaging his thigh, Wilson knew he wasn't lying. That "shit-eating grin" vanished quickly.

House saw it vanish, and saw a look of guilt in its place. "Works every time," he said, smiling a little. "Seriously, though, I gotta sit down. Let's go." Both men climbed into the car, one a lot more slowly than the other, and they took off for home.

Considering the fact that Wilson and Chase were obviously both in some sort of collaborative effort against him, House was amazed that Wilson looked so calm, cool and collected next to him in the car. House had figured out long ago how to read Wilson and what his "tells" were. When Wilson was lying about something, one of his tells was a slight nervous twitch in his face. Another tell was a tendency to drum his fingers. Neither of those things was happening now. So yes, Wilson was obviously lying, but neither his words nor his body language gave away exactly what he was lying about. House knew it had to be big if it involved Chase. Chase, the little fraidy-cat, ran away before House could get a hold of him. He'd have to dig deeper with Wilson, then.

Wilson had also learned, long ago, how to read House's tells. House had a great poker face and rarely gave any visible cues when something else was going on underneath, but there were cues, and Wilson was just as astute as House when it came to figuring out a person's tells.

For example, the left corner of House's mouth twitched in a unique way when he was deep in thought about something. There were two particularly obvious times when he was deep in thought. One was in a differential diagnosis meeting and the other was when he was lying about something or plotting a prank.

There was also a tell when he was around Cuddy in the old days. That tell, unfortunately, was now gone, and sadly missed. In the old days, when he and Cuddy were flirting madly with each other and neither one of them knew what they really needed, House's facial expression would turn from a steely, direct gaze to a soft, dreamy expression every time they were close to each other. It didn't matter what the verbal interaction was about. Whenever they were in close proximity to each other, blind as they were to the fact that they were not meant for each other, House turned, at least for a moment, into a love sick puppy. As soon as Wilson recognized the tell, that look would disappear.

So Wilson studied House's tells just as closely as House studied Wilson's. Once they were in the car, he had to turn his attention to the road, but he knew that House was still studying him intently.

"All I'm going to tell you is that Chase is part of the reason why we're going to have the most memorable, amazing Saturday that we've ever had together. Forget anything you and Cuddy ever did together. This will be one for the ages."

"Well, I wasn't expecting you to tell me why hiding my backpack and sending me on a painful wild goose chase would make my Saturday totally amazing. I was also not expecting you to tell me why you had Chase do your dirty work for you, although I must admit, having a third party idiot do the dirty work is brilliant. So you lived up to my expectations. Congratulations," House muttered.

Trying very hard to keep the grin off his face, Wilson stared straight ahead at the road and said, "Well, I would say 'just trust me' but that'd be a waste of breath. Let's just go home."

They rode the rest of the short distance home in silence; Wilson just barely keeping a lid on his excitement, and House getting antsier by the minute trying to figure out just exactly what Wilson and Chase were hiding from him.

Wilson pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street. Happily, since that first encounter with the inconsiderate idiot who parked in House's spot, there were no more parking problems. The men got out in silence, each with their own agenda. House couldn't keep his eyes off Wilson. Sooner or later there'd be a tell, and when there was, House would be that much closer to getting his answer. Wilson was just as bound and determined not to let on anything about what was going to happen tomorrow.

House kept dwelling on one particular thought. Nobody would kidnap something and then just give it back without demanding ransom.

Wilson knew that House wasn't going to let this go; he also knew that he couldn't stand watching the poor man torture himself until tomorrow night. "House, you're reading more into this than there is. Chase just kept you occupied for a little while because I needed you gone for a little while. I'm not sorry we lied to you because, given the same circumstances, you would have done the same thing to me. The Great Backpack Caper is over with," Wilson assured him.

House tried to relax and smile. He tried to throw Wilson off by pretending that he trusted Wilson. "Ok. Let's just get something to eat and maybe we can play some Need for Speed on the Playstation." He didn't believe Wilson for one minute. Chase was too much of a suck up to kidnap House's backpack without a good reason and without a major, major payoff. No, there was still much more to the Great Backpack Caper, and he'd just have to wait for the epiphany to come. House unlocked the door and let Wilson in ahead of himself. He took a few moments to study Wilson from behind, trying to pick up on any new tells. Nothing out of the ordinary was apparent. Wilson put his keys in his coat pocket and neatly hung his coat up in the coat closet. House threw his keys on the table by the door and flung his RTAI leather jacket on the couch. He was beginning to entertain the notion of kidnapping something of Wilson's, when Wilson came out from the kitchen with two bottles of beer and some snacks and House changed his mind. Both men flopped down on the couch, with their beers and snacks on the coffee table and remote controls in their hands. House launched Need for Speed, and the gaming began.

Time stood still Friday night while both men were engulfed in Need for Speed. It took House's mind off of the damn puzzle and it took Wilson's mind off of the anticipation. They fell asleep exactly as they were, slouched back in the couch with their feet up on the coffee table and both legs crossed in exactly the same fashion; left leg over right. The snacks were gone. Four hours later there were a few reminders left of their evening spent doing fun bachelor stuff; the Playstation was still on, displaying the Need for Speed opening menu. Two empty beer bottles were still standing upright on the coffee table, two empty potato chip bags lay next to the beer bottles, and two exhausted men sound asleep. They were slouched on the couch next to each other with Playstation controls in their grasp; their feet propped up on the coffee table in mirror image of each other.

House was the first to stir. He'd learned shortly after the infarction that when he was awakened by the urge to use the bathroom, he had to manage his time differently. Before the infarction, the urge to use the bathroom had to be pretty strong in order to wake him up. Now, out of necessity, his body had been rewired to the point where just the slightest urge to go woke him quickly from sleep. It took him longer to get to the bathroom than it took an able bodied person. He needed that much more advance warning in order to avoid an accident.

He made it to the bathroom and back without waking Wilson. House surveyed the environment, still trying to figure out what Wilson and Chase were up to, when he saw his backpack and had a partial epiphany. He realized Wilson didn't bring his laptop home. Wilson never came home from work without his laptop. Whatever they were plotting against him involved Wilson's laptop. They must have sent him on that wild goose chase to give Wilson and Chase time to pull the Great Backpack Caper; Chase must have given House's backpack to Wilson in exchange for Wilson's laptop.

In House's mind, that meant that Wilson, Chase, or both of them were blackmailing him for something. There must be some kind of incriminating, damning evidence against House on Wilson's laptop.

House limped back to the bedroom. While getting ready for bed, he racked his brain continuously trying to remember what could possibly be on Wilson's laptop that could be used against him.

Early the next morning, House opened his eyes, after sleeping all of about one hour, amid several journals and a crossword puzzle that he had been working before he fell asleep. The space in the bed next to him was empty. It had not been slept in. Wilson had spent the rest of the night on the couch.

House could hear Wilson singing in the shower. Time to spring his surprise attack.

As carefully as he could manage with the cane, House crept into the bathroom while Wilson was in the shower. Wilson was belting out "This Thing Called Love" by Queen so loud that House was able to pee without alerting Wilson as to his presence in the bathroom. After sufficiently emptying his bladder, House didn't flush the toilet. Instead he waited quietly for Wilson to finish the song. When the singing stopped, so did the shower, and House launched his verbal attack while Wilson was still nude, wet and defenseless behind the shower curtain.

House quickly grabbed Wilson's dry bath towel and shouted "Wilson!" The poor man was so startled he almost fell in the bathtub.

Wilson parted the shower curtain from around House's tub to find that House had taken his dry bath towel hostage.

"House, I'm freezing! Give me the towel!" Wilson cried, goose bumps forming on his wet naked body. House stood there dangling the comfy, warm, dry towel just out of Wilson's reach.

"Not until you tell me why Chase took my backpack and why you came home from work yesterday without your laptop. I know the two are connected."

"Listen, you nincompoop. I told you to forget about the backpack. I'll just walk naked and wet back to the bedroom. I know you'll follow me. Maybe your ass will slip and fall in the water on the floor as it drips off my cold, wet body," Wilson said with a conspiratorial smile.

House just stood there, in Wilson's way, teasing him with the dry towel that was out of Wilson's reach.

"Idiot! You can stand there and tease me all you want, but you're still not going to get your answer until tonight," Wilson replied, this time a little tersely. He got out of the tub, cold, naked and wet, and barged right past House.

House followed Wilson and his little trail of water droplets back to the bedroom.

"Why are you trying to blackmail me?"

"Geez!" Wilson exclaimed. "For the nth time, House, there's nothing to this! I'm not trying to blackmail you." _Well, at least that part is true,_ thought Wilson. Then the lie came. Hopefully House wouldn't see through it. "I had to talk to Cuddy about something that did not involve you. I was trying to be considerate of you. The woman's trying to avoid me. Remember that guy I misdiagnosed several years ago? The one that I diagnosed with lung cancer but it turned out he just had talc in his lungs? He complained about me to the licensing board and I just now got the letter from them about it. I had to talk to Cuddy and since she's trying to avoid me, I had to do it over the phone. I didn't want you following me around like you always do because I thought if you heard the conversation it would be uncomfortable for you too. So I recruited Chase to lead you on a wild goose chase around the hospital, just long enough to keep you otherwise occupied during my call with Cuddy. That's all there was to it, House."

The reply was quick and sharp. "If that's all there was to it, then why does Chase have your laptop? That thing's like your American Express card. You never leave without it." It was even clearer to House, now, that Wilson was lying. His patients never complained about him, and Wilson had even offered to pay that guy the money he lost when the guy thought he was dying. There was no way that guy would complain about Wilson. _Lies, lies, lies._

Caught in the lie, Wilson needed this to stop before it backfired on him. It was already heading in that direction anyway. "House, I'm not blackmailing you, and everything will be alright. Don't be mad. I'll give you one more little morsel, but beyond that, this conversation is over with. Here's your morsel. Don't make any plans for tonight."

House turned away and grumbled as he headed back to the kitchen. "I think the macho man-bracelet around my ankle means I can't make any plans other than what porno on-demand movie I'll buy tonight."

With House in the kitchen picking out some cereal for breakfast, Wilson promptly locked the bedroom door. Now he had a few more moments to himself to pick out the outfit he would wear for their evening at home tonight. He selected navy dress slacks and matching suit coat, a very light blue dress shirt and no tie.

Then he thought, _what the hell,_ and put the outfit back in the closet. This was their night, a special night, and House would never dress for a special night at home, so why should he? Wilson thought, _why shouldn't we both be comfortable?_ He pulled out a pair of comfortably worn jeans and a nice jazz-themed tee shirt. _Yeah, that'll do nicely,_ he thought with a smile. But he couldn't put them on now. House would immediately question the jazz-themed tee shirt. In all the years they'd known each other, the only time House had seen Wilson in a tee shirt was when Wilson had to camp out at House's and he wore tee shirts to sleep in. So the folded jeans and jazz-themed tee shirt went back into Wilson's suitcase. It wasn't completely House-proof, but it was better than putting them in a drawer where House would find them immediately.

Also buried in that suitcase was another surprise for House. Either House had never searched through Wilson's suitcase, or he had, and put everything back exactly as he found it so that he wouldn't be discovered. At any rate, something special lay neatly folded at the bottom of Wilson's suitcase.

Years ago when Wilson was in college at McGill, he was in a glee club. He had not intended, at the time, to pursue the performing arts as a career, but still, glee was fun and he was good at it. One year they did a Dixieland Jazz revue. It was a blast, it got great reviews in the college newspaper, and it so happened that Dr. John was performing in Montreal at the same time. Somehow or another Dr. John got wind of the McGill Glee Club's great Dixieland jazz performance, and someone gave him an audio tape of the concert. Dr. John was so impressed by what he'd heard that he sent a box full of autographed memorabilia to the glee club. Wilson took an autographed Dr. John tee shirt. He'd never worn it and it had been in storage all these years. It was a men's size 3X. Wilson would never wear the shirt because first of all it was an autographed collector's item and secondly it was always too big for him. He could have had the shirt framed and frankly, he'd forgotten why he never had it framed.

It was time to break it out and give it to House tonight, before the concert.

He'd be lucky if House didn't completely tear the house up before the evening arrived. Having procured his bowl of Froot Loops and milk for breakfast, House was currently sprawled on the couch watching Saturday morning cartoons, eating cereal and calling Chase.

After the fourth call to Chase went unanswered and House had left four messages for Chase to call him back, he threw the phone down on the couch and storm-limped back to the bedroom to find something besides sleep pants to wear for the day. Wilson had barely had enough time to put everything back in the suitcase and stow the suitcase somewhere safe. Wilson himself was still in the process of dressing for the day.

"You got a case?" Wilson wondered out loud when he saw House limp through the bedroom door.

"Yeah. A case of 'you're driving me nuts-itis.' Guess what the cure is."

"The cure is for you to mind your own business until tonight. Quit bothering Chase, too," Wilson said with another smile.

Wilson grabbed his clothes and dressed in the bathroom while House dressed in the bedroom.

Reappearing in the bedroom in blue sweats, Wilson said, "I'm going out for a run. I'll see you in a bit." He deliberately left out the part about how long he'd be gone. House would make it his business to dig deeper if Wilson told him he'd be gone for a few hours. Nobody can run for a few hours.

Yes, Wilson did run for a little while, and did some grocery shopping. The grocery shopping really wasn't necessary. He just needed to kill a little time before BB's Jazz, Blues and Soups opened for lunch, and the only way he felt he could safely kill some time without letting House drive him crazy was to run some normal errands out of the house. So he did his morning run, went to the grocery store, came home and unpacked groceries just like normal.

When 1 pm rolled around, Wilson pretended that he'd forgotten something at the grocery store that he really needed urgently. "I gotta go back to the store," he announced to House. "I forgot the maple syrup. Do you need anything from the store? I'm sorry, I forgot to ask you before I went to the store the first time this morning."

"No," House called from the couch, where he was now watching men's college basketball. The University of Missouri Tigers were playing the Aggies from the University of Texas, and since the Tigers were currently rated #3 in the nation in men's college basketball, this would be a good game and House didn't want to miss it.

Wilson passed House on the way out the door. House was completely engrossed in the pre-game festivities on TV and Wilson was so thankful that he'd have a few hours to do what needed to be done without worrying about House. House would be glued to the TV for the next two hours except for bathroom breaks.

Wilson climbed into the Volvo and headed to the restaurant. BB's Jazz, Blues and Soups was in a section of town populated mainly by skyscrapers full of lawyers during the day and restaurants full of lawyers at night. A pro baseball team had a stadium nearby that drew forty thousand fans per game, so during baseball season, BB's was crowded not only with lawyers but also with baseball fans. Fortunately it was not baseball season yet, so Wilson would only have to contend with lawyers and legal staff on their lunch breaks. The traffic was bad, but not impossible, and he made it to the restaurant in about 45 minutes. He could have called the food order in, but he wanted to peruse the menu in person and have a drink at the bar at the same time. _Just one drink,_ he promised himself. While he was perusing the menu, he had a few sips of very good bourbon and he watched a few minutes of the game House was currently engrossed in at home. But he wasn't here just to drink and watch the game. He really studied the menu and selected what would be their dinner tonight. Black beans and rice, angry hushpuppies, catfish po-boys, and sweet potato pie would be perfect.

Calling the bartender's attention, Wilson asked if he could place a delivery order now and have it delivered at a later time tonight. The bartender looked at him like he had three heads and then remembered her training in good customer service skills, and regained her composure. The bartender's immediate response would ordinarily have been_ "Seriously? You want to place a delivery order for dinner and not have it delivered until six hours from now? Are you kidding?"_ but her good customer service skills training kicked in and instead, she bowed her head politely and said, "Let me ask my manager."

A few minutes later the manager appeared at Wilson's side. "Hi! My name is Tom Smith and I'm the manager. I believe I spoke with you yesterday." Wilson immediately greased the man's palm with a $100 bill. "Sir, I appreciate it, but that's not necessary. We can take care of you. Turning to Kim, Tom said "Kim, go ahead and take his order. Write **6 pm for delivery**__in felt tip marker on the order slip, so they know not to cook his food too early. Put it in the computer, he'll pay the tab now, and put that it's for a 6 pm delivery time in the computer too. It'll be fine." Turning his attention back to Wilson, the manager explained, "We just don't do that very often. Normally people call in delivery orders about an hour or two beforehand. This isn't a big deal, and as a matter of fact, since we're going to be extra busy with the Dr. John after-concert show here tonight, we appreciate getting delivery orders earlier than usual. We can handle it and we appreciate your business."

Now that the food was ordered and paid for, Wilson needed to book it home toot-sweet before the basketball game ended and House resumed his attempts to figure out why Chase, Wilson, and Wilson's laptop were involved in anti-House subterfuge.

On the way home, Wilson remembered to stop by the grocery store again and pick up the maple syrup. He also picked up a copy of Monster Truck Monthly from the magazine rack because if the game was over, House would resume single-mindedly trying to unravel the subterfuge, and a monster truck magazine might just come in as a handy distraction. Either that or a good new porno mag, but the grocery store didn't sell porno.

Bursting through the door with the paper bag and its two contents, Wilson was enormously relieved to find that House was still engrossed in the game. There were two minutes left in the second half and the Tigers were ahead by five points. Two minutes left in the game meant that the Aggies still had a chance to come back, and it also meant that House would be safely glued to the TV for awhile longer. Not only that, but there was probably another game on the same channel immediately afterward. Wilson's plans were already complete and he didn't need to do any more to get ready for tonight; he just needed to be sure House was not otherwise occupied trying to unravel his carefully laid plans. ESPN had college basketball on all day today, so Wilson felt safe in the knowledge that he had a good House-sitter in the form of back-to-back televised college basketball games.

It was time for lunch. Wilson hadn't eaten lunch at BB's and obviously, House hadn't eaten anything since his morning Froot Loops. House was too occupied with college basketball to get anything together for lunch, and this time, Wilson was thankful that House had something else to keep his mind occupied. Wilson threw together some soup and sandwiches, poured some Cokes and took everything in to the living room. He personally had no interest in college basketball, but he did want to show an interest in something that House was obviously interested in. Wilson knew how to play the game but he knew nothing about the collegiate teams involved, and House was happy to fill him in ad nauseum.

They spent the rest of the afternoon watching college hoops while House eagerly explained how NCAA college basketball is organized, which teams were in which NCAA division, the difference between NCAA divisions and NCAA leagues, the history of the Big 12 (the league the Missouri Tigers were currently in), the history of the SEC (the league the Tigers were joining beginning next season), etc… House had even pulled out his laptop, showing Wilson his fantasy college basketball teams, reciting each player's current statistics and explaining why he chose the players he'd chosen. It was when House started explaining how the NCAA March Madness college basketball playoffs were organized that Wilson recognized that an internal struggle was beginning.

Wilson's desire to learn something about a sport House was obviously interested in was at war with his ability to hide his growing boredom. It turned out House knew as much about college basketball as he knew about medicine, linguistics, mathematics, and physics. Wilson's growing boredom was winning the war.

Of course House recognized Wilson's boredom. "Why didn't you say you wanted to watch something else?" House asked with a fake look of innocence and a smile.

"I wanted to learn something about a sport you're interested in. Besides, there's only one TV. You're going to watch what you want anyway."

"You don't give me enough credit," House replied.

"Sometimes I think I give you credit for more than you deserve," Wilson retorted as he rose from the couch. "It's not the college basketball that's boring me right now. It's the TV. I just can't sit here watching this idiot box all day long. I need to do something else."

They spent the rest of the afternoon together yet apart; each involved in their own second favorite leisure time activities. House would rather have gone out and played music with friends on a Saturday, but since the ankle monitor made that impossible, he did his next favorite thing and spent the afternoon in front of the TV watching college basketball. Wilson would rather have gone out to a movie, but since he didn't want to do something that House couldn't also do, he stayed home and found things to do around the house.

Wilson noticed something about House as the afternoon wore on and House stayed glued to the TV. House had taken his morning Methadone dose, but hadn't taken any since then and he was obviously having some breakthrough pain. He was starting to rub his leg more and he was doing some gentle range of motion exercises, as if he was trying to work out the kinks. Wilson couldn't help but ask the question that came to mind immediately, even if it was a stupid one.

"Are you ok?'

"I can't believe you even asked that," scoffed House. "Of course I'm ok. Yes, it hurts, but I need to keep all my senses about me today and stay clear-headed so I can stay on top of all this subterfuge of yours. Can't lose my edge, you know." Looking at the worry lines on Wilson's face, House added, "Oh, relax. Don't worry. If it gets too bad, I'll take some, Mommy. Since you feel the irresistible need to intervene, and it's obvious that you do, you can get me a heating pad if you don't mind."

5 pm rolled around and dinner was due to be delivered sometime around 6 pm. Wilson snuck outside and surreptitiously called the restaurant to make sure they got his order straight. Everything at the restaurant was fine and they had just started cooking his food. It was estimated to be delivered by 6:30 pm. College basketball was still under way on TV, but House had already seen the games he wanted to watch.

The heating pad had helped a bit, but he really needed his evening Methadone dose. He hadn't taken any extra Methadone during the day. Ordinarily, during a work day, he moved around enough during the day that his leg didn't stiffen up that much. Two regular doses of Methadone every day were working very well. Saturday, though, meant less moving around than usual, especially since he'd spent the last roughly five hours on the couch. Boy, his leg was really rebelling now that he wanted to get up and get moving.

This was all old hat, though; nothing new, and nothing would help except the Methadone and taking his time to work the kinks out first.

Unfortunately, there were plans tonight, although House still didn't know what they were. The plan was to be dressed and ready for the concert when the food arrived. Wilson needed to come up with a way to help him get moving faster so they could be ready in time for the big evening.

House stood up, gripping tightly onto his cane with both hands, and leaned forward a moment before he straightened up. Wilson looked on for a moment but experience had taught him not to intervene unless House asked for help. And he never asked for help. "Again, Wilson, relax," House interjected. He continued to look straight ahead and stood stock still in one position. He wasn't ready to move yet. "This happens all the time when I've been in one position for too long. Just give me time. I don't need any help. Quit looking like you're afraid I'm about to topple over. I'm not."

Shrugging, Wilson turned and walked back to the bedroom. House could hear some rustling going on back there, and it sounded like he was packing or unpacking a suitcase.

"We have plans for tonight. I have something for you to kick off our plans. Since you don't need any help, get your ass back here," Wilson goaded him.

House stood still for a few more moments, rubbing his thigh until the cramp was gone. Sighing deeply, he tried a step or two. Things seemed to have loosened up sufficiently for him to get moving, and the closer he got to the bedroom, the more his curiosity piqued. He was that much closer to figuring out the rest of the details behind the Great Backpack Caper.

By the time House made it back to the bedroom, Wilson was throwing things back in the suitcase. House's mind registered the fact that Wilson was packing a suitcase, and he missed the object that was right in front of his face on the bed.

"So, we're going to Tahiti?" House deadpanned.

"Look at what's on the bed, dummy. It's for you."

House gave the folded tee shirt package on the bed a brief look, and the look on his face said _yeah, it's a tee shirt. Thanks. I have fifty of them already, but thanks,_ until he gave it a second, more thorough look. Something on the tee shirt caught his eye.

_Oh my God._ _It's Dr. John, and it's autographed!_ He picked it up gently, fingered it lovingly, seemingly afraid to remove the plastic wrap around it.

House's initial reaction was predictable and so was his second reaction. No "Thank you!" or "Wow, this is awesome!" or anything like that. In a soft voice he said, "Where did you get this from?" as if the only thing that was important to him at the time was to find out where Wilson got the shirt from, not to simply express his emotion and say thank you.

Wilson saw through the wall right away. "You're welcome, House. They tell me the ink is washable but I think you should frame it after tonight. Anyway, right now I want you to put it on. Put on some nice jeans, too. It's almost 6 pm and you're still in sleep clothes. We have plans."

House put the shirt on and it was a little big, but he liked big tee shirts anyway.

The shirt was navy blue with an image of Dr. John seated at the piano outlined in dark black. Under the image were the words "Dr. John live at the Oscar Peterson Concert Hall, Montreal, Canada", also in dark black.

Above the image read the hand-written autograph "To a fellow jazz lover, Dr. John".

Now House was nearly speechless. "How?" was the only word he could get out.

"I got it when I was in undergrad at McGill. I think I told you I was in a pretty good glee club there. Dr. John was in town at the same time we did a concert. I don't know how, but somehow he got a hold of a cassette tape of our performance and I guess he thought it was pretty good because he sent us a bunch of autographed stuff after he heard the tape. Everything was in one box and it was all autographed generically since he didn't know our names. We got to pick whatever we wanted. I picked the tee shirt. It's been in storage all this time. I thought you should have it. It looks good on you, too. Now, as much as I like you with your sleep pants on, or no pants on for that matter, put your jeans on because this is only the beginning of the surprise. Someone's going to show up in a few minutes bearing more gifts and you need to be dressed."

House was shell-shocked. _Nobody gives presents without expecting something in return,_ he thought.

After he donned his favorite pair of jeans, House stared at himself in the mirror, admiring the shirt. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined himself at the piano right next to Dr. John. They'd be playing a gig at Carnegie Hall in front of a packed audience. Dr. John would be at House's left, playing a funky bass line while House would tinkle the ivories playing a bluesy riff on "Ain't Nobody's Dirty Business." _Heavenly._

Then he shook himself back to reality. There were more surprises in store for him tonight. He wasn't used to good ones.

The doorbell rang. Obviously Wilson was expecting it to ring when it did, and obviously he was expecting someone bearing a large load, because when Wilson answered the door, House saw him prop the door open. The man had so much food that he had to make two trips back and forth between the truck and House's kitchen to deliver all of it.

House's usually keenly observant eye caught the fact that Wilson didn't pay the guy or tip him either. This meant the food bill and the tip had already been paid for in advance. _Hmmm._

"Set the table," Wilson ordered.

House hadn't set a table in years. As he was doing so, he remembered for a brief moment the fun he had with his mother in the kitchen. She used to sing him a song that taught kids how to set a dining table. "And the fork goes here, and the spoon goes there, here a plate, there a cup, everywhere a table cloth…" She sung it to the tune of Old MacDonald Had A Farm.

House didn't have a table cloth but he did have enough matching pieces of dinnerware that he was able to set a nice table.

He even tried to find something to put in the middle of the table as a centerpiece, because his mom had taught him that a properly set formal dining table isn't complete without a centerpiece. He thought whatever Wilson had in mind for tonight might deserve a centerpiece.

He didn't have anything but a dying plant, and somehow or another that just seemed like exactly the right kind of centerpiece House would use anyway. While he was peeling off the dead leaves trying to make it presentable, Wilson said, "What the hell are you doing?" with a smile. Wilson was in the middle of re-heating the black beans and rice, which had grown a touch cold on the ride over.

"Getting a centerpiece ready," House said, with a look of _what else would I be doing?_

"Stop. Get your laptop and put it in the middle of the table."

_Ok. Now MY laptop figures in to the Great Backpack Caper too. _

House silently and very suspiciously got his laptop out of his backpack. He put it in the middle of the table as he was ordered to do.

"Plug it in so it isn't running on batteries. Turn it on, make sure it isn't muted, and launch Skype. I know you have Skype installed on it. I know that's how you talked to your hooker in Belgium."

Again, House did as requested, all the while staring suspiciously at Wilson.

"You'll get your answer in awhile. If you have Skype running and it's not muted, sit down and we'll have dinner."

Wilson put all the food on the table and poured two glasses of a nice vintage port. "I know port is usually a dessert wine but I like it with spicy food. To an evening to remember," Wilson toasted.

House returned the toast with a somewhat less suspicious gaze, but still suspicious. Wilson reveled in the suspicion. It would make the piece de resistance even sweeter.

Alcohol and Methadone don't mix, but neither do alcohol and Vicodin, and House had been mixing those two particular ingredients together in copious amounts for years. He was on a much more reasonable pain management protocol now and one glass of wine wouldn't hurt. House knew that underneath that veneer of trying to pretend not to care, Wilson had to be monitoring House's alcohol intake, and House had been more or less compliant with what Dr. Huynh told him about alcohol anyway. If House gulped that delicious wine down right away and poured another glass, it would ruin the evening with Wilson, so he did the right thing and sipped it slowly. Whatever was happening tonight seemed to be good, or at least it was getting off to a good start. He knew if he wanted it to last, he had to make this one glass of wine last too.

The table looked like a Thanksgiving table from Better Homes and Gardens. It was resplendent with dishes full of black beans and rice, angry hushpuppies, catfish po-boys, sweet potato pie, and a carafe of the best coffee north of New Orleans. Wilson set out a container of sour cream and a pitcher of water. The table was complete, although it did look crowded and odd with a laptop in the middle of it. House was itching to find out what or who they would be Skyping later on.

House speared a hushpuppy and popped it into his mouth. Then he discovered the reason why they called them "angry" hushpuppies. They're "angered" by Tabasco sauce, diced jalapeno peppers and Creole seasoning. They're spicy and they're delicious. _Wilson was right, _House mused. _The vintage port does go well with this. So would about half a gallon of milk._

Instead of stealing food from Wilson and inhaling it like he always did, House uncharacteristically ate his food slowly, relishing every bite, and didn't even look at what was on Wilson's plate.

Wilson's smile just got broader and broader throughout dinner.

They kept up a topical conversation about their cases, each knowing that this was just an attempt to kill time. House, of course, had no idea why they were obviously just killing time with silly conversation. Wilson, of course, was trying to cover up how anxious he was to make sure that Chase got to the restaurant alright with his laptop and didn't encounter any last minute hitches logging on to Skype before the after-concert show started.

At about 7:30 when they were ready for dessert, Wilson got up and excused himself for a minute. He claimed he had to go back to the loft because he had something in the freezer there that there wasn't room for in House's freezer. Wilson did leave the premises, and since he knew House would be looking, he actually did get in his car, start the engine, and pull away from the curb. He got down the street far enough where House couldn't see him, then he pulled out his cell phone and texted Chase.

Meanwhile, back at BB's Jazz, Blues and Soups, it was nearing 7:30 pm and Chase was sitting in his car with his beautiful blonde-du-jour, the new nurse from the clinic. The action in the car hadn't progressed beyond a kiss when Chase's phone alerted him that he had a text message.

U there yet?" was the message from Wilson. _Perfect timing,_ thought Chase.

"We have a reservation. They're telling us our table is ready," Chase explained to his date.

Chase reached back to the rear passenger seat and pulled out a folding cane.

"What's wrong? Did you hurt yourself?" his date asked.

"Not tonight. It's a game. I work for House. Get used to games. Tonight I'm pretending to be crippled. Grab that briefcase," he told her, gesturing to Wilson's briefcase that contained Wilson's laptop. "Don't drop it."

Chase stepped out of the car and took a few practice steps with the cane. "I've never limped. I have to make it look good," he said by way of further explanation to his obviously confused date. "Just play along."

She came around to his side of the car, closed his door, and waited while he locked the car. Then he put his arm in hers and together, the two of them made their way to the back door of the restaurant. Again, his date looked at him even more confused. "The front door is this way!" she said, pointing to the other side of the building.

"I know, but this is the only handicapped accessible door. When I made the reservation, I was told to go to the back door."

"This is crazy. You're not handicapped, but I'll play along," she said, wondering what in the hell was really going on.

She played along with him and opened the door for him. She hoped that she wasn't going to all this trouble only to find out he was a real loser. So far, her initial assumption was that this date was going to turn into a nightmarish disaster. She fingered her cell phone in her pocket, trying to think of a way to get out of this mess early. She got further proof when they saw the maitre' d and Chase said, "Hi! We have a reservation. Wilson, party of two."

"Good evening, sir! We've been expecting you! Your table is ready. Right this way, please." The maitre' d led them to their table. Chase's date was even more sure Chase was a complete loser. _Why else would he have to pretend he was someone else, and not only that, why else would he have to pretend to be crippled? It's almost like he's begging for their pity or something._ But, loser or not, at least he was cute and took her to a good restaurant. She'd endure his pathetic attempts to seduce her if it meant good food. She could always leave right after dinner was over with.

After they were seated and the maitre' d left their table, Chase pulled out the two Dr. John tickets. "I'm not a complete loser. I'm not just trying to seduce you. These are for after dinner. He's playing a show here later tonight. This is for you. If you don't want it, I'll understand," he explained to her as he handed her ticket to her. He wasn't sure if she believed much of what he said.

Then he pulled out a pill bottle full of Tic Tacs. He popped the top and threw a few Tic Tacs down his throat. Again, she looked at him like he was from Mars. "I'm not hurt," he said. "These are Tic Tacs, not pills. It goes along with the cane and the limp. I have to pretend I'm taking pain pills. Just trust me. I'll make sure you have a good night."

Jennifer looked at him like he was crazy. Now she was sure she wanted out of here. "I'm not even sure who you are. You're good looking enough as it is. Why would you need to pretend to be someone else? Why would you need to pretend to be crippled, drag me in to a nice restaurant through a creepy back door like you're trying to hide me, and why do you want people to see you taking pain pills? I don't get it."

Chase thought if he told her the truth, she'd bolt right away, but he was getting to the point where he really couldn't hide the truth from her any longer. He really did like her and didn't want her to think he was just using her even though technically, he was using her. He technically was using her to earn the $400 from Wilson.

"Look, don't leave, please? Please don't leave. You'll probably want to after I tell you what's going on, but please don't. I really like you." Chase took a deep breath and went on. "My boss' friend paid me $400 to take these Dr. John tickets, come here, set up his laptop here for him, and launch Skype when Dr. John comes on stage. He told me I had to bring a friend. It was my idea to ask you out. Believe me, I'm not jerking your chain. I like you and I want you to have a good time. Please don't leave."

"But why do you have to pretend to be someone else?" she asked, impressed a little bit by the fact that he did trust her enough to tell her the truth even though the whole thing sounded outlandish and she still wanted to leave this fool.

"My boss uses a cane and pops pain pills in public. The reservation was for two, and the restaurant was told that one of the parties in the reservation was disabled."

"Did you even make the reservation?" she asked him, again not sure she was going to like the answer.

"No," he said truthfully. "The only thing that was up to my discretion was who I could ask. I wanted to ask you out, so I did."

After a few moments, she concluded, "Well, who knows, you may not be as much of an asshole as I think you are. I'm not leaving. I'll give it a try."

The lights dimmed in the restaurant. The opening act came out on stage. Leland Payson came out on stage with his National resonator guitar. One man and his guitar kept that audience enthralled with the best acoustic blues Chase had ever heard. His date seemed to enjoy the music too even though most of it was written in the early twentieth century, generations before either of them were born. Chase looked at her and she was gently swaying to the rhythm of the music. Even her feet were softly tapping the floor in time with the rhythm.

When Leland took his first break, Chase looked dreamily into his date's eyes. She whispered back softly, "My name's Jennifer, remember?"

Chase breathed back, "Yeah; my name's… uh…. Robert. Yeah, that's it." She allowed him to hold her hand. Chase said, "We don't have to stay here, you know. I just have to aim the laptop at the stage when Dr. John comes on. After that, we can do whatever you want."

"Actually, I think you want to do whatever _you_ want, but fortunately, whatever you want is what I want too. You got me here under false pretenses but I love the evening so far. I thought I wanted to run screaming out of here, but I'm willing to give it a shot. I have never heard Dr. John but if he's anywhere near as good as this guy, I want to stay right here," Jennifer said with a smile. "Just promise me you won't pretend to be anyone else the next time we go out."

"So there is a next time?" Chase asked, grinning. "Glad you didn't bolt. I'm going to set this laptop up early. They like Dr. John so I know they'll like this guy. I hope they're online," he said while launching Skype at the same time.

When Skype came up on Wilson's laptop, Chase fooled with the angle of the screen until it was aimed at the right spot on stage. He began to wonder if the establishment or the musicians might object to their performances being video recorded, but then as he looked around he saw a lot of patrons doing the same thing with their cell phones even though there was a sign asking patrons to turn their cell phones off. There were pale blue or white lights emanating from most of the tables in the restaurant as they aimed their cell phone cameras at the stage. Nobody did a thing to stop it. Chase was safe, at least for now.

With the webcam aimed at the right spot on stage, Chase logged into Skype and then he had another problem. He had no idea what Wilson's Skype name was. He sent another text message to Wilson and the reply came four seconds later: "His Skype name is fanboyW. House"

_Oh great; House knows something is up._ At this point in the evening, though, Chase was having so much fun with Jennifer and the good music that whatever was going on with House and Wilson took a back seat. As far as The Great Backpack Caper was concerned, whether or not he was paid for his part in the affair didn't matter any more. Jennifer didn't bolt on him and he really liked her. They were having fun.

Chase called fanboyW on Skype and fanboyW accepted the call. fanboyW could see the stage and, after Leland Payson came back out for his second set, fanboyW confirmed that they could see and hear the performer well. Chase moved next to Jennifer and the two sat hand in hand enjoying the next set.

Meanwhile, back in House's lair, House was enjoying Leland Payson's set and, for once, shut up and smiled. The view of the stage over Skype was excellent and so was the audio. Wilson was so proud, and House didn't even know what was really in store for him. Wilson chuckled to himself and wondered what would happen when House found out what the piece de resistance was.

Chase and Jennifer were still holding hands and staring dreamily into each other's eyes when Payson's last set was over with. House and Wilson couldn't see them over Skype since the laptop was aimed at the stage, but they could hear them very well. Chase started whispering sweet nothings into her ear, obviously having forgotten that the Skype audio was still on or else he was too far into her to care. Either way, House and Wilson still had a good show to listen to even though the stage was temporarily empty.

House couldn't resist a good dig. Just when Chase was about to make some kind of big move, probably give her a good kiss, House chirped, "Atta boy, Chase! What is she, number two or three today? You got some stamina, boy!"

Wilson and House both guffawed with laughter and, on the other end of the connection, Chase slammed the laptop shut.

"Oh, let's get it over with already!" Chase said, smiling, and kissed Jennifer. "They'll just laugh louder if we kiss after I open this laptop back up again."

When they came up for air, Chase opened the laptop and Skype came right back up again. The audio and video were live again. The house lights in the restaurant were back up again since there was a temporary lull in the action on the stage, and from home, House chimed in. "Oh, yeah, just what I wanted to watch on a Saturday night. An empty stage and all the good action is going on off camera."

Wilson said, "Shut up, House. Let them enjoy their evening. Whatever you think is so much fun right now, believe me, it'll pale in comparison to what's coming soon."

9 pm rolled around, and the house lights at the restaurant were still on. Obviously the guest of honor either hadn't arrived yet or just wasn't ready to go out on stage yet. Either way, Wilson wasn't sure how long he could hold on to the surprise. He just hoped that Chase and Jennifer wouldn't slip up and say anything about Dr. John since the audio and visual connections were live on Skype. House and Wilson could only see what was going on on the stage directly in front of the camera, but thanks to the high definition audio on Wilson's laptop at the restaurant, they could hear everything, including every little whisper.

Just when Wilson was trying to think of some way to keep House entertained while waiting for the man of the hour to go on stage, the house lights at the restaurant were turned off. The place was pitch black. Patrons at the restaurant could still see thanks to the emergency lighting at the restaurant, but over the webcam, House and Wilson couldn't see a thing. Suddenly a deep bass voice announced, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, in a rare after-concert appearance, direct from New Orleans, the one, the only, you know him as the Doctor, Doctor John!"

A solo stage light illuminated the piano and there was Dr. John, plain and simple, no frills stage presence. It was Dr. John, the piano and a mike. No backup singers, no band, nothing. The sounds coming from that stage were heavenly and the view over the webcam was so good it looked like he was singing and playing just for House.

The first song was a cover of Warren Zevon's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." House had heard plenty of covers of that song including Dr. John's, but the recording on CD was nothing like as good as hearing and seeing it live.

Then he launched into a medley of what he was best known for, groovy New Orleans jazz. "Tipitina", "Iko Iko", "Memories of Professor Longhair," and "Junko Partner" followed each other back to back.

Then he took an applause break, and wow, the applause was wild.

House looked at Wilson, completely speechless. If he didn't have a reputation to protect he'd have let that tear roll down his cheek that he was holding back. _Hey, gotta be a man about this,_ he thought. He still had no idea why Wilson had gone to all this trouble for him but he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. Wilson just looked back at him and smiled.

When the applause died down, he started in on "Such a Night." House was so moved that he forgot the audio was live from his end too. He made it over to his piano surprisingly fast and joined in. Wilson silently muted the live audio connection from House's laptop so House could play along all he wanted and it wouldn't be heard on the other end. House was happily lost in this night of music. Music brought him solace; music tamed the angry beast, and this was exactly what he needed. It was good for what ailed his soul, and he certainly had the chops to join right in and play with Dr. John. For a moment Wilson seriously considered secretly turning the audio back on again so that everyone could hear the magic that was happening in this moment, but the night was going so well and he didn't want to risk embarrassing House so he just let it be. House could happily play right along, and the music coming from his piano was just as beautiful as that coming from the stage at the other end of this Skype connection. Wilson kept their end of the audio connection muted so House could keep right on making lovely music.

Right after it ended, Wilson called for House to come back over to the table and when he did, Wilson un-muted the mike on the laptop and something even more special happened. Wilson had it planned all along.

Wilson didn't know ahead of time if Dr. John was going to take requests, but he knew that most artists who played at BB's did eventually get around to taking requests. Some of them took requests during the second half of their show, some took a few requests at various points anywhere in the show, and some didn't take requests at all. Wilson and Chase had planned this out in advance. Wilson had given Chase an extra two hundred dollars to stuff the bar jar if Dr. John was taking requests. If he wasn't taking requests, there wouldn't be a bar jar out. As it turned out, Dr. John's stage assistant put out a big fat ass glass vase with a tip sign on it, and Dr. John announced that he would take a few requests. The bar jar was immediately filled with five- and ten-dollar bills, with requests attached to them.

Chase flashed a hundred dollar bill in front of the webcam, marched up to the bar jar with it and a list of song requests attached to it. Being no dummy himself, Dr. John saw the hundred dollar bill and latched on to it like a lifeline. It would be quite some time before he got around to playing any of the five and ten dollar requests, if he ever did.

"Hey folks," growled Dr. John in that oh-so-familiar and comforting bad-boy grumbling low voice of his, "this here hunderd' dollar bill says I got to play five requests. Sorry, but y'all's little bitty five and ten dollar requests are gonna have to wait a bit." Everyone laughed good-naturedly. Chase hoped that the other patrons in the restaurant would figure he was trying to show his date a really, really good time.

He started in on the first song, "Didn't He Ramble". "Oh didn't he ramble, didn't he ramble. Rambled all around, in and out of town…"

House looked at Wilson and mouthed, "Chase do that, or did you?" Wilson smiled even bigger and pointed to himself.

House settled back into his chair, propped his feet up on the table and smiled. He started singing right along and didn't give a damn who heard him.

The second song was "My Buddy". This had Wilson absolutely written all over it. Wilson even joined in on the singing. Since half the patrons in the bar were singing along it didn't matter what was going on on House's end of the Skype connection. House could have gone back to the piano and joined right in and it would only have made the whole experience for everyone that much more enjoyable. On Chase's end of the Skype connection, at the restaurant, Dr. John was looking all around as he played and sang, and a great big smile erupted as he saw most of the patrons singing right along with him. One more piano, especially coming from someone with House's chops, would have been wonderful even if it was coming from a remote location over a Skype connection.

House, meanwhile, was happy enough just leaning back in his chair with his legs propped up singing along with everyone else. Drugs couldn't bring this kind of happiness. Alcohol couldn't do it either. This was the life; being with the one he loved, experiencing something he loved. He'd been given a one-of-a-kind gift and nothing was expected in return. Now he understood the Great Backpack Caper, and it was all to show him how much he mattered to Wilson. Wilson did it just because he wanted to, and there was no subtext.

Dr. John finished the next three songs on Wilson's request list; "Right Place, Wrong Time", "Mos' Scocious," and "Accentuate the Positive". House knew that Wilson must have put a lot of thought into selecting those particular five songs.

When Dr. John was finished playing the five requests, he added, "Here's a toast to the guy who requested those. I'll toast anybody who tips me a hunderd bucks!" Indeed, he raised a glass and toasted everyone in the audience. Everyone laughed, toasted him back, and in House's lair, House and Wilson toasted each other as well.

Dr. John took a brief intermission and when he came back, the second set lasted a full hour. The man played a total of two hours after his regular full-length concert at the other venue. The evening was truly amazing and one that House and Wilson would never forget.

When the show was over with, Dr. John played one encore and then the house lights came back up again. Chase shut Wilson's laptop down at the restaurant. Wilson shut House's laptop down at the house. It was nice that Chase and Jennifer obviously enjoyed each other's company and also enjoyed the show at the same time, but for Wilson the only thing that mattered was that House had the time of his life.

While Wilson gathered up the food and dishes from the table, House said softly, "I love you, but why did you do all of this for me? It isn't my birthday. It isn't Christmas. You aren't dying. I'm not dying. Why did you do all of this?"

Wilson answered simply, with a sly smile. "You did something nice for me. I wanted to return the favor. That's what people do for each other. Plain and simple. The opportunity came up to set up something fun for you and I wanted to take advantage of it. I'm glad you enjoyed it, and by the way, I do too."

"You do, what?" House laughed.

"The first thing you said. I do, too. Take your Methadone before you try to get up out of that chair, dummy. It's time for bed. We have court tomorrow."

**A/N – and thus we come to the end of House Arrest. I'll start posting the next story in the Jail series, "The Trial", in a few days. Hope you liked this one!**


End file.
